The Now and Then Raid
by Ivonova Stalin
Summary: Don't you just hate dust storms? 2007, 1942? Huh? What happened here?
1. Chapter 1

No, I don't own any of the characters in the **Then** portion of this story. They belong to themselves and the actors who protrayed them.

The **Now **characters are all mine, allbeit based on a lot of people from my evil past.

This story is complete, but I will be posting it a chapter at a time. I'm converting and editing at the same time and being just out of an extended hospital stay, I'm moving slowly. Sorry. Please read and review. But no nastiness, I'll pout.

**The Now and Then Raid**

Chapter One, Now

_But it's a dry heat…_

I closed the door behind me, steeled myself and turned to confront the slap in the face that is the Arizona weather. We talk about the weather but what we get is climate and whoever said, "But it's a dry heat" was a total idiot. When the mercury tops out at over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, it does not matter if it is dry as dust or wet as a salt marsh in Louisiana. It is just plain old hot. And that oh so wondrous _dry heat_ sucks the moisture right out of your skin like a good vacuum sucks up uncooked rice. Fast and totally. I have not been back in my home state but about a month and I can already tell that I am going to have to go back to the old routine of my teen years. Buying moisturizer by the gallon and wallowing in it like a pig in slop. I grant you that is not a pretty picture but it is what a woman in Arizona does if she does not want to look like a very old leather boot by the time she is thirty-five.

It is November, the season when Thunder Sleeps according to the Navajo reckoning, so why is it still hot as blazes? And at the crack of dawn? Well, okay, it is oh 700, but for someone who likes to stay up really late and sleep until noon, that _is_ the crack of dawn.

How did I end up back here in Arizona? Of all the questions that I keep asking myself, that last one is the one that keeps repeating over and over in my mind like a broken record. I joined the Air Force right out of college, grabbed my commission with both hands and took wing to see the world (and maybe a little bit of let the world see me).

Okay, I will come clean; I went to college just to get a commission. I wanted to see more than my quaint little corner of Arizona. Bisbee is an interesting little town. It is picturesque. It has a fascinating history and the tourists think it is just too, too darling. I wanted to see a bit more and do some serious traveling. I did pretty good for the first nine years. I wintered over in the Antarctic; spent a year "down under" (now there is a story and a half, but that can wait for another day); wandered around Europe for a bit; put in some time below the Mason-Dixon line; caught the attention of someone who thought I would do pretty good as the commander of a "Situation Team" and I met some seriously strange "visitors" in a seriously strange "situation".

I had hoped to catch some South Pacific sun for me and my team, Hawaii is great this time of year and Guam is not to be sneezed at. But here I was like a bad penny, back in my home State. Do not get me wrong, I like Arizona. It has a strange, sere beauty that grabs you by the throat. And the sunsets, well, they are just about the best in the whole, wide world. They are real mind blowers. It has something to do with the dust, the heat index and the inclination of the sun. Ask Corny, she could tell you. I would be bogged down just trying to think about it.

Corny? Sorry, I forgot you do not know my team and me. However, come to think of it, if you are reading this journal, you have managed to crack the code on my safe, or have authorization to read it and you have all my journals so you should know whom I am talking about. But, just on the off chance that I have had a stupidity spasm and left this fool thing sitting out where you can get at it and you do not have the program to figure out the players…Corny is SSgt. Caroline Cornelius from Mabelvale, a little community just outside of Little Rock, Arkansas.

Think Dolly Parton in Battle Dress Uniform. That picture just sort of boggles the brain, doesn't it? That gal makes BDUs look like a fashion statement. Jealousy is a green-eyed monster and trust me, my eyes are green as emeralds. That, that….midget….is cute as a button, smart as a whip and makes me feel like a horse.

And get this, according to my, mmmmm, boy friend is not the term I would use…lover?...nope…that is not quite right either. He is sort of a fiancé, sort of a working partner, sort of a friend at court at the FBI, when I need it, not that the Air Force ever needs that sort of thing. Right. I do not know what the hell to call Thomas Jones. One hell of a man? Yeah, that works.

Anyway, now that I have shot off on a tangent, back to the subject at hand, Thomas Jones, all around good guy, says that Corny wants to be me when she grows up. Humph. First off, she is going to have to grow about eighteen inches. I am 6'5" and she is barely 5' tall. Vertically, that is. Horizontally….I do _not_ want to talk about it. Let us just say that if I turn sideways and stick out my tongue, I sort of resemble a zipper and she is Venus d' Milo in miniature. Disgusting little git.

It is a good thing that she is a genius with a computer AND makes great coffee, or I would toss her off my team in a heartbeat. Yeah, sure I would. She is one smart cookie and makes this lowly Captain, almost a Major, look very good. Oh, hell, between Senior Master Sergeant Iverson and Corny and all the rest of my team…I look very, very good. Most people think I can walk and chew gum at the same time.

Boy, have I got them fooled. You can insert an evil chuckle and some "hand washing" at this point. I just stand around looking wise (which usually just means keeping my mouth shut and nodding when someone looks at me quizzically) and let the "kids" as Iverson calls them get on with their jobs.

Early on in my career, when (then MSgt.) now SMSgt. Dan Iverson took me under his wing to train me, he told me to let people do their jobs, support them when they need it, stand between them and some idiot that thinks he knows their job better. In other words, be a bullshit filter. That bullshit filter stuff works in both directions, by the way. You keep the brass off the "kids" backs as the stuff flows downhill. The way it works is, if something goes wrong, it is all your fault. It is never the "kids" fault. If something gets praised, it is all because of the "kids." You listen to every word your "kids" tell you, sort out the doable from the pipedreams and then push _it_ uphill, and jam it down some bureaucrat's throat. Praise them to high heaven in front of God, the General and everyone, quietly slap them down in private when they merit it, but make damn sure you have all the facts before you start swinging. When they eat cold rations, you eat cold rations. When they sleep in the mud, so do you. Remember that keeping them alive is job one. If you can get a handle on that, well, you just might have a shot at not folding under pressure. So far, I have been very seriously lucky and there are no fold creases on me.

Whew, there is nothing like baking your brain in the Arizona sun to make a person turn all introspective and philosophical.

Oh well, on with my story, I just know you are dying to hear the rest of it. Where was I anyway? Oh, right, I had just shut the door. I closed the door, made sure it was locked and climbed into my car. Okay, my truck. When you are as tall as I am, a car just does not have the headspace or the leg space. Pickups are almost as fancy and, in some cases, fancier than most cars and they have the head and leg space that I need to keep from turning into a pretzel. If it weren't for the fact that I never knew when or where I was going to have to go at the drop of a hat, I'd have walked to work. If I stand on my roof, I can chunk a rock and hit the main gate of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base or the _ranch_ as Iverson calls it. That is as the crow flies. As the feet walk (or the wheels roll), it is one block west, three blocks north, one block west and then eight blocks south to the corner of Craycroft and Golf Links where the main gate is situated and then it is three miles from the gate to my little fiefdom in the desert.

We have our offices in one of those "temporary" metal buildings situated next to the last of the original World War II hangars. I hate those temporary buildings. The cooling/heating system is always the wrong size for them, usually a smidge too powerful. So, in the summertime, we ice skate like penguins and in the winter, we roast like chestnuts. There is never a happy medium.

We use the hangar to park our vehicles and store assorted classified and unclassified, wanted and unwanted, needed and unneeded, useful and useless materiel. One major problem with the military is that once an item finds its way onto a TOA (Table of Allowance) it is almost impossible to get rid of it. It is sort of like trying to fire a Civil Serpent once they have been in the system a couple of years. It just cannot be done. So we have more junk than we can shake a stick at and most of it never sees daylight. A lot of "stuff" is seasonal and geographical. We very seldom take our skis and parkas if we are headed for the Sahara.

The ranch? That is what SMSgt. Iverson calls Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. He says that it is easier to say. I say he does it because he likes to stir up the locals. However, when you sit right down to think on it, it does sort of look like a ranch, a not very profitable one at that. Everything is dirt brown or sand tan and anything that resembles green growing things is at best meager. On the "ranch" about the only thing other than quail and squeaks (prairie dogs) that passes as livestock are the A-10s. Not very big, slow-flying, ugly and beloved of all ground troops. Tank Killers is what the ground pounders refer to them as. And that is what they are. They do serve to keep the rustlers at bay.

Remember what I said about walking and chewing gum at the same time? Some things can be done on autopilot. Like driving a vehicle. All the time I was nattering on to you, or me, or whoever it is that I think I am talking to, I was driving my truck onto base and around the perimeter to my hideout. Some hideout, anyone driving down Alvernon or Golf Links can see our building. We do not have a sign out front advertising the fact that we are there and most folks seem to have decided that we are some kind of reserve unit. Hey, more power to them. The less said and speculated about, the less worries we have. I am not sure that even the Base Commander has a real good idea of what it is we do.

Come to that, I am not sure our team even has a complete in depth grasp of what we do, I know I sure don't. We do what we do when we do it and where it needs to be done. Did that make sense? No? Good.

**Then**

Tully tilted his steel pot back and watched Troy atop the sand dune for a couple of minutes before returning to his letter writing. He licked the dull pencil tip and carefully added a couple of words to the collection on the grainy notebook. He squirmed in the seat of the jeep trying to find a comfortable spot that was not hot as hell and finally gave it up as a bad deal.

"Who you writing?" Hitch's voice carried quietly from the next jeep. The young blonde Ivy Leaguer did most things quietly, romance the girls, strangle German guards, blow bubbles with that ever present bubble gum. Except blow things up, he was really good at making lots of noise then.

Tully's first reaction was to bristle and tell him to butt out, but that lasted all of about the blink of an eye. Hitch wasn't being nosey, just making conversation. Usually, silence did not bother any of them, they could go hours without a word being said, but there was just something in the air today that had all four of them jumpier than a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Moffitt kept wandering around, moving from place to place. Picking up a book, laying it down, moving the map case, and then moving it back to its original location. He didn't light anywhere for more than a minute. Maybe there was a sandstorm on the way. All this flashed through Tully's mind in a split second and there was little appreciable delay in his answer to Hitch.

"Carol Sue Hillyer. She is this really smart gal from my hometown. She got herself one of those scholarship things to a teacher's college in Arkansas, Henderson State University. It is near that place, Hot Springs, and it ain't too far from Little Rock, that's the capital. So we all pitched in as much as we could so she would have store bought stuff and not look like some hillbilly from the sticks."

Hitch nodded slowly, "That's nice. Is she going to go back home to teach or does she have to do some teaching in Arkansas to sort of even out the scholarship?"

Moffitt's attention was caught and he moved closer to hear the conversation.

"Well, she's gotta teach at one of the schools in Arkansas for two years after she graduates, but she says she likes Arkansas a bunch. It is real pretty, like home, she wrote in her last letter, all green and mountains and such like. She says there's this little town called Mabelvale, barely a wide spot in the road, but she says they got them a nice little school built but they don't have a steady teacher. She may just stay there. She's one of them really gung-ho on teaching folks. Says that education is the only way to free folks from poverty."

Moffitt nodded, "I quite agree with her. If we could educate the world…" He broke off, shook his head and then continued, "Two to three years of teaching is not an uncommon way to get qualified teachers in areas that are, mmmm, not quite as well to do as others."

"You mean dirt poor, Doc?" Tully grinned at Moffitt's attempt to be diplomatic. "Both Arkansas and Kentucky are dirt poor, Doc, we need all the help we can get. Roosevelt started those work camps to make jobs, but even that ain't enough. Bout the only things that keep folks from starving is making and selling moonshine and hunting."

Hitch looked uncomfortable as he always did when wealth and lack of it came up. His family had more money than it knew what to do with and he was very uncomfortable with the fact that they didn't seem to want to do anything good with it for others. He pounced on a sure-fire change of subject. "You courting this Carol Sue?"

Just as he suspected would happen, Tully's face turned about the same shade of red as a fire truck and he started to stammer and stutter out denials.

Moffitt chuckled, struck a pose and quietly butchered Shakespeare, "Me thinks the lad doth protest too much."

In the middle of the laughter a whistle called their attention to Sgt. Troy, still perched, belly-down, on the top of the dune. He held up one finger, clenched his fist and made a come-hither gesture. Moffitt sighed and made his way to the top of the dune, sliding and slipping on the shifting sands and dropped down beside Troy, "What's brewing?"

"I don't know. Take a look, about 10 o'clock, low on the horizon." Troy handed over the binoculars and waiting for Moffitt's verdict.

Moffitt shifted to study the area in question, stared and finally shook his head. "I don't know what it is and no, I've never seen a dust formation like that anywhere or any time in my life."

Troy grunted and squinted into distance to try to catch that odd glimpse of reflected light that he caught above the horizon and then turned his attention back to the whirling storm. "What the hell is that thing?"

Moffitt was as puzzled as Troy. The closest thing that he could compare the swirling mass of wind and sand to was a waterspout, an unbelievably gigantic one at that, but since free water was almost non-existent in this part of the desert, that was impossible. A shiver went down his spine as he watched the vortex meander across the horizon. It shifted from high to low, rose up, up and up and then turned short, and broad. And always, he could see the flying sand. There was an eeriness to the whole situation that made him want to jump in a jeep and race as far and as fast away from that "thing" as possible.

Troy finally shook his head and glancing down the hill, gave the start up signal to Tully and Hitch. "I guess we better go and see what there is to see."

Moffitt grimaced, "Now why did I know you were going to say that?"

Troy grinned, "Because you keep low and evil company?"

"Isn't that the truth, old man."

Together they slid down the dune and ran to the rumbling jeeps. They settled into a slow, steady speed and with Moffitt and Troy manning the guns, headed out across the face of the North African Desert to investigate a force of Nature.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**Now**

_It has come to our attention…_

I nosed my pickup into that glorious and much to be wished for spot labeled "Commander." Right in front of the door. Sometimes it is good to be the Queen. I killed the engine and climbed out. Once again, that heat slapped me upside the head. Did I say I liked Arizona? I lied. I ducked into the building as fast as it was humanly possible to move without creating a sonic boom and took a deep breath of air that was not super heated. I lied…again. This is starting to be a bad habit. November is considered by the world to be part of winter and cold, ergo, the military blindly follows suit. And, as with any industrial complex, the heat was on. Eighty plus degrees outside this little metal oven and the heat was on.

I slammed my briefcase onto the nearest desk, watched the owner duck and cover, impressed by his instant response to perceived and/or real danger. I sniled (yes, that is a combo word, sneer and smile; I think it covers the subject) and bellowed for Iverson. Through the open door in the interior wall, I could hear feet hitting the floor in a rapid cadence and the scrabbling of bodies attempting to evade the juggernaut. A faint "eep" indicated that someone had not been fast enough and the cadence turned staccato. I could see it in my mind. Iverson tap dancing around someone who was trying to waltz out of the way, bob and weave, duck and dance. I rolled my eyes, leaned back against the desk and waited like doom at the wedding.

SMSgt. Iverson meandered through the door just as if he had been out for a Sunday stroll, "You bellowed, Captain?"

"I never bellow."

"I stand corrected. I'll sit corrected shortly. You yelled?"

"Acceptable. Foully untrue but acceptable. Why is the temperature in this building the same as outside, if not a few degrees warmer?"

Dan gave that question all the consideration it did not deserve before answering gravely, "Because the Base Engineer is the degenerate, syphilitic offspring of degenerate, syphilitic first cousins who were in their turn the offspring of degenerate, syphilitic first cousins?"

I thought that over before nodding agreement, "Good one, Dan. That one is worth at least ten points. Is there any way, short of a sledge hammer to the climate control unit, of disabling the frakkin' governor on the thermostat?"

"I assume you would prefer that we don't get caught?"

"I would appreciate it."

He nodded, "I will put Corny and the Geeks on it."

"That works for me." We nodded and headed our separate ways. I grabbed my case and headed for my office to enjoy an early morning sauna.

Did I happen to mention that those stupid, metal, temporary buildings have windows that are about the size of postage stamps and that the majority of them cannot be opened with anything less than a stick of dynamite and even that is an iffy proposition? Not that opening one would do any good. When the inside temperature and the outside temperature are approximately the same, there is no telling what might happen if the two masses of air were allowed to collide. Implosion? Explosion? Total annihilation of life on earth as we know it? I was not about to take the chance and be known as the idiot who blew up Arizona.

I doffed my shirt and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. No, boys and girls, I did not strip. For one thing, I don't have the figure for it. Remember the zipper? For another thing, I have on one of those wonderful baby-puke green t-shirts under my shirt, so get you minds out of the gutter. I do not care if your minds _are_ down there with the rest of your body.

I settled in at my desk, glared at the piles of paper scattered on it and began attempting to bring some order to the Chaos Theory. I must have spent at least, oh, five, maybe even seven minutes before I gave up and mumbled a few words that would have my mom reaching for the soap. I poked at the piles for another moment or two, gave it up as a bad proposition and went in search of a cardboard box. Airman Watters (two t's, please, ma'am), one of Corny's head geeks, had two and I liberated one of them. He put up a desperate fight, but I managed to distract him long enough to do an end run, grab it on the fly and escaped back into my dungeon. I could hear him grumbling as I sorted through the piles of bureaucratic toilet paper. I filed the vast majority in the circular file, dropped a few in my in-basket and dumped the rest in the box.

We were supposed to be getting a 702 any day now and he or she could take care of them. What is a 702? That is an Administrative Specialist. Back in the bad old days, before political correctness, they used to be called Clerk Typists. This just happens to bring me to another of my soapboxes.

Hang on while I climb up here, grab my bullhorn and get ready to rant. Okay, what the hell is _political correctness_? Since when has politics become _correct_? Politics is corrupt or it is crooked, or it is underhanded, or it is left-handed, or it is deceitful, or it is sneaky, or it is duplicitous but it is _never, ever _correct. So would someone out there, please, explain to me how on God's green earth that particular bit of idiotic verbiage came into being? And who coined it, so we can take away their minting privileges! Besides, what does politics have to do with what we call someone or something?

Never mind, I am obviously off on a tangent again. I do that on a regular basis. I think of it as one of the idiosyncrasies of rank. SMSgt. Iverson tells me I am just plain nuts. The man has no respect for my rank or position. Maybe that is because he has known me since I was a puling second Louie.

I dropped the box with its load of dead trees converted to dead paper covered with useless words on the empty desk that would soon (I hoped) be inhabited by our very own Admin troop, snagged a mug of coffee and wandered through the back of the building and into the hangar.

It is good to be the Queen. I enjoy watching people work. You can insert another evil grin and some hand washing here. I, for one, was never one to micro manage. I make sure my people know their jobs and then I back off and let them get on with it. All I was doing was letting them know I was around if they needed me. TSgt. Wallis was supervising the unpacking and stowing of the contents of a Conex. I stopped and admired his new stripes. He blushed, stammered and did the "aw, shucks, ma'am" routine. The promotion from Staff to Tech is a nice pay raise and he would see the first fruits of his endeavors in the first of the month paycheck.

That was also when he would be expected to buy every one a drink. We usually settled for a beer at the rec center and no one was picked up for DUI. The Air Force is death on drugs and DUIs and so is a certain crazy (according to SMSgt. Iverson, but what the heck does he know) Captain, almost Major. Do drugs on my team and you might just as well cut your own throat and get the pain over with, because after I have you drawn and quartered, and shot at dawn, then I will have you before a court martial and hung immediately thereafter. Then it would be SMSgt. Iverson's turn at bat and he would really hurt you.

The cell phone in my thigh pocket began playing Beethoven's 9th Symphony at me, so I pulled it out, looked at the caller I.D., grinned and answered, "And just what does fearless Special Agent Jones of the FBI want at this ridiculous hour of the morning?

Thomas took just long enough to answer for me to figure out that he was not calling to change our date for this evening. When he finally answered, his voice was grim and very quiet, "Two of our agents are missing."

I blinked a couple of times, wondered what that had to do with me and mine and asked, "Okay?"

"They disappeared between Page and Flagstaff, over the reservation."

"Okay? I am a tad bit confused here, Thomas. What does that have to do with the Air Force, or me, or my team?"

I should have known better than to ask. Don't ever turn your back on him, the man is seriously sneaky, "They were in an Air Force chopper at the time."

"Oh." There was a long pause while I thought that one through. "Okay, where did the chopper go down? How many souls on board? Do you know how many were killed, injured, whatever?" I was still trying to figure out what this had to do with me and mine. We were not flight ops or rescue or anything mundane like that.

"Rachel, they _disappeared_. The chopper is fine, the crew is fine. The chopper did not, repeat, did not go "down." It did NOT crash. The crew chief was in the back with the two agents talking about the truck they were trying to find and, to use his own words, "One second I'm talkin' to 'em, the next second they are gone." They disappeared from a closed chopper at 750 feet in mid-air."

That got my attention. Big time. Boy, did it get my attention. While I was still trying to frame a response, the pager on my belt started screaming and I could hear several others in the hangar going off. I yanked the pager off, looked at it, noted the code and stuck it back in its holder. "Thomas, I just got a page from D.C. I will probably be seeing you very shortly. Bye." I closed the phone, slid it back into my pocket and booked back to my office. I grabbed the phone off my desk and hit a two-digit speed dial. Before the first ring completed, it was answered in the E-ring of the Pentagon.

"Fogerty."

"Captain Donovan, sir, I got your page."

"Saddle up, and get your team in the field, Rachel. The brown fecal matter has well and truly struck the oscillating air circulator. The FBI has misplaced a couple of their people and they were discourteous enough to do it in one of your helicopters. This all happened about ten minutes ago."

"So I hear from Special Agent Jones, sir. I was just speaking with him by phone when you paged."

"That boy still sniffing around your skirts?"

I respect and admire General Fogerty but sometimes, he just flat takes my breath away and leaves me with my jaw flapping, "uh, ah, uh…"

He roared a laugh and told me to get my team into the field and find out what was going on. And that was the end of that conversation. General Fogerty is not real big on social graces, but he does get the job done. I like that in the man. In fact, other than the fact that he knows just what to say and just when to say it to turn me about two shades redder than a fire engine, I like everything about the man.

I could hear a couple of fax machines in the rear of the building spring to life as our orders came down the electronic pike. A hummer growled its way to the front door and I could hear Iverson yelling orders for the "kids" to start packing desert gear and stand by for further orders. I yanked my shirt off the back of the door and raced out of my office. Iverson and I did a little bob and weave of our own as we both tried to exit the building at the same time. That little dance finished, we jumped into the vehicle and Airman Williams aimed the vehicle at the main gate while Iverson sorted through maps and orders to figure out exactly where it was we were going.

It seemed that the Situation Team had another Situation to handle.

**Then**

The two jeeps moved steadily in a generally Northerly direction. It was like playing hopscotch but with much deadlier results if a line got stepped on or a square was skipped. At the base of a row of dunes, the jeeps would pull to a stop and Troy would trudge to the tops and survey the area. If there was nothing in sight, the jeeps would race like mad demons to the next hidey spot and the process would start all over again. It was boring, hot, dusty and just plain old tired making, but the alternatives were exciting, cold, and dead. They could live with boring.

Sam was getting sick and tired of red sand in his boots, in his mouth and as far as he could tell, in his underwear. He swore softly as he trudged to the crest of the next row. He dropped to his belly and using the binoculars, checked in all directions, including their rear. More than once they had pulled the trick of swinging wide and coming in the back door of a convoy. It always unnerved the Germans and made them highly paranoid for a few days.

The Patrol would laugh like hell, race to the coast and spend a few days in the sand and water of the Med or back to the cantonment, restock, recharge, have a drink or ten and get in a brawl or two. They'd work the jeeps over, clean up and rest up and then once the Germans had calmed down again, they'd sneak out and hit them from a different direction. Troy snorted a laugh, it was like a cat playing with a mouse, only the mouse had big fangs and claws.

A discordant sound caught his attention and pulled his head around toward the North. That damn dust storm was still out there. It kept changing shape and moving around like a woman who couldn't make up her mind where to sit to show off her new dress the best. The faint sound was almost like the wail of a child and it sent a chill straight through him.

A movement caught his eye and he swung the binoculars eastward. He could just make out a train of camels and donkeys, people and horses, all moving much faster than he had ever seen a caravan move. A fast retreat to the east from the gigantic, wailing, dust storm.

He slid back down to the jeeps and signaled Hitch and Tully to shut down. As the rumble of the jeeps shut off, the faint wail of the storm and the even fainter sound of harness bells could be heard.

Troy cocked his head at Moffitt, spit to clear the dust from his mouth and asked, "Ever hear a sandstorm make a wail like that?"

Moffitt listened, and slowly shook his head, "No, not in real life. I've heard legends about such things, demon storms, jinn, suchlike. If you refer to the jinn purely of themselves, they are called _jinni_; the jinni that live among mankind, they are called _aamar_ who's plural is _amaar_. The ones that antagonize the young, they are called _arwaah_. The evil ones that antagonize humans they are called _shaitan_ for the singular and _shayateen_ for plural. If they cause even more harm and become strong, they are called _afreet_. If I had to pin a "label" on that thing out there and I was to use the local vernacular, I would say that is one, big, nasty afreet."

Troy shrugged and shook his head, "Which don't exactly clear the air, if you will excuse the pun. What about the folks running like hell to get away from it?"

"What!?" Moffitt was already running toward the top of the dune.

Troy looked around with a grin, "Did I forget to mention that?"

Tully rolled his eyes, switched the omnipresent matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other and shook his head. Hitch just pulled his Kepi down over his eyes and slumped down in his seat as if to take a short nap.

Troy trudged back up to the dune and hunkered down beside Moffitt.

"Well, Doc? What do you think?"

Moffitt considered for a long moment before finally responding, "I think that thing out there has the locals scared out of their minds and we might just want to pay attention to what the native population is _saying_. They generally know the area and the problems a lot better than we tourists."

"Yeah, kind of figured that, only thing is, what if Rommel decides to use that storm as a cover for an attack. We gotta check it out."

Moffitt reluctantly nodded his head, "agreed. I truly dislike what we are about to do, but you are correct."

"Okay, then. Let's shake it."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**Now**

_And the truth shall set you…_

I will say this for Airman Williams; bats in hell could take driving lessons from him. By the time I had managed to get my shirt back on and buttoned up, which I might say is not easy to do with a seatbelt on, he had barreled out through the main gate, horn blaring, flown down Craycroft and made the hard left turn onto 22nd Street and was blazing a trail for the Interstate. I could hear SMSgt. Iverson in the seat behind me cursing slow, steady and without repeating himself once as he tried to get the laptop to latch onto an Internet connection. Some of it was in languages that I do not even pretend to have a smattering, but when he hit "_sin sue bak ee_" I knew he had moved into Russian and the laptop was in serious peril of its continued existence if it did not start cooperating and soon.

Why is that men always refer to recalcitrant equipment in the feminine mode? I never have figured that one out. Maybe it is because we women are…wait, I had better not go there. I'll have everyone, male and female, out looking for my scalp. Never mind. Picture me strolling away, innocently whistling the theme from _The Third Man, _and if you have ever heard that particular piece of music, you know it is almost impossible to whistle_. _Just be aware that I am trying very, very hard to pretend that I did not even start to open the door on that subject.

I know we made a turn onto the Interstate but it was so fast and so slick that I did not see or feel it. Of course, in a hummer your butt is dead inside the first five minutes so unless you are watching (which I was not) you do not know where you are until you are where you are and you do not necessarily know how you got there. I looked up and we were flying down I-10. Flying up I-10? Dang it all, we were headed North on I-10 West. Uh huh, that one is a head scratcher, isn't it? Just trust me (smiles evilly); I do know whereof I speak. I-10 runs East and West, but between Tucson and Phoenix, you go North and South, and I thought we were headed for Phoenix, which just happens to be North of Tucson on any map you care to consult. Our orders told me to link up with the SAC (Special Agent in Charge) at the Field Office and the FBI Field Office in Arizona is amazingly enough in the capital, Phoenix. But before we had even gotten out of the city limits, I got a phone call.

"Rachel, pick me up at the truck stop in Eloy."

Typical man, thinks he is in charge, no please, no hello, not even a kiss my foot or how do you do. What does he think he is, in charge? Well, he might just be in this case, since it is FBI agents that went poof and he is FBI and I ain't. That is okay. The last time we worked together, I was in charge and he was the gofer.

"Which one?"

"Oh, hell." In my mind's eye I could see him looking around to see just exactly where he was. "Iron Skillet."

"Okay." I looked at my watch, looked at the speedometer, did some fast finger counting, no, I don't do math, it barely rates as arithmetic! "A half hour, give or take five minutes. Where do we go from there?"

"Not over the phone, I will tell you when you get here. Is Dan with you?"

I harrumphed. "Do you think that the Air Force allows me to move more than ten feet without my Senior NCO whispering in my ear telling me what to do, how to do it, where to do it and when to do it? Get a grip, Jones."

That got a laugh from him.

"Okay, good. I did not want to have to wait for him to show up. I hate to do this to you, Cap'n, but in this one, I call the shots. My boss talked to your boss and I got the word about two minutes ago. You should be getting the word from your brass soon."

While Jones was telling me what I had already figured out, Dan tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a fax that was still hot from the press. It said basically the same thing that Jones was telling me and more importantly, it had General Fogerty's signature at the bottom.

"Just got the word, Thomas. Ain't technology grand, darling? Flying down the Interstate at 97…**SAY WHAT**?! Williams! What the hell are you trying to do, kill us!? Slow down!!" Good grief, Charlie Brown! I did not know a Hummer could go that fast. In fact, I thought it was impossible. Iverson had SSgt. Farmer play with the engines on all our vehicles and it seems that the man knows engines or he is a seriously talented magician!

"Yes, ma'am." And he did, to at least 95 mph. Well, I am comforted by the fact that only the good die young. I have got it made. I will live forever.

"Sheesh!" I could hear Thomas trying without a lot of success to turn his laugh into a cough but I was big enough to ignore that. Well, I was almost big enough to ignore it.

"I am going to hurt you, Jones, really hurt you. Anyway, as I was saying, ain't technology grand? Flying down the Interstate," this time I didn't look, I figured I would just save myself the gray hairs, "and getting a fax from the Pentagon at the same time. You are the boss, Jones. Just one minor thing, you do not give my people orders. You go through me or Dan, got it?"

"Got it, sweet face." I rolled my eyes on that one. "I will be waiting out front for you." The dead air told me he had hung up.

"Sweet face?" Dan asked from over my shoulder.

I turned slowly, noting only in passing that Airman Williams had his eyes intently glued to the road and that a bright shade of red was slowly making its way up his neck and holding a conversation with his ears. Dan had a delighted grin on his face and I realized that because of the engine noise, I had turned up the volume on my phone.

"Am I going to have to sic Su Feng on you, Senior-Master-Sergeant- Daniel-No-Middle-Initial-Iverson?" Su Feng is Dan's tiny little Chinese wife and terrifies not only Dan but me as well. This is only as it should be. I want her on my side in a fight, any fight.

"Aaahhhh, no, Ma'am, no, no, no. I did not hear a thing and neither did Airman Williams, and even if he did, he has forgotten it already." Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the vigorous shaking and then nodding of Airman Williams head.

I am so proud of myself. I did not laugh. I did not grin. I did not smile. I maintained a proper military bearing. It was hard, very, very hard. And I knew that my sides were going to hurt from the tight grip I had on the muscles. Repressing a laugh is not a good thing. It sneaks out on you when you are not expecting it.

"Good. Call the base and tell the kids to get everything ready to haul ass, but not to take more than two steps from the phone. If they have not heard from us by lunch time, have them contact the flight kitchen and get box lunches sent out. I do not want anyone out of pocket when the call to go comes."

"Yes, ma'am. Right away, ma'am."

I had to roll my eyes on that one. Excessive military courtesy is just another form of sarcasm, and Dan was really good at it. I grumbled a bit, listened to him call the base and get everything there ship shape and Bristol fashion.

I pulled the map out of the side pocket and started refamiliarizing myself with the northern area of Arizona. It is a bleakly beautiful and forbidding place. It is a death trap for the unwary, and a fantasy landscape for those who appreciate beauty. From high plateaus to deep canyons and every thing in between, it is a nightmare when you are trying to find something as small as two missing FBI agents. And just how the blue blazes did they get out of the helicopter at nearly a thousand feet, with someone looking right at them? This one was going to take some serious work to get to the truth of the matter. It was registering _way_ over on the weird side of my weird-o-meter. If it turned out to be just another fish story and something that those Airedales had cooked up as a joke, we were going to go at it, hammer and tongs.

Williams, swinging the hummer hard into the Eloy off-ramp, jerked my thoughts back to the here and now. He barely touched the brake pedal as he banked hard right and skidded into the parking lot. Jones was already running full out toward us. I do not think that we actually came to a stop, not a full one anyway. Jones was in the back next to Iverson and Williams was headed back out toward the Interstate before I could quite manage to say hello.

"Does this thing have a siren?" That was Jones hanging over the seat and barking in Williams' ear.

"No, sir, but we have flashing lights and I have loud speaker capability, sir." Williams was quick with his answer and by the time he was through talking, he was back on the Interstate and the speedometer needle was ooching its way back toward the nineties.

"Turn them on and use the speaker on anyone stupid enough to get in our way. We will pick up a Highway Patrol escort just this side of Chandler. They are clearing a lane through Phoenix for us."

By this time, we had passed the I-8 cut off, which heads out across the desert to San Diego, and were coming up fast on Casa Grande. We flew by so fast I did not even have a moment to whine about not going to the outlet malls, Casa Grande's major claim to fame. The mind boggled at the idea of a clear lane all the way through Phoenix and on to I-17. Normally it is at least one and more likely two or more hours to get through the city, depending on the day and the time of day. I have known it to take as much as four hours to get from the south side of Phoenix to the north side. It is a nasty mess of traffic and it seems that some portion of the highway is always under construction.

I do not know whether it was Williams' aggressive driving, the time of the day or if we were just plain lucky, but there seemed to be no one in our way. Those that were on the road were moving out of the way of that dirty brown and tan war machine with alacrity. Dang, think what they would do if we had mounted the machine gun on top. Wooowee. Now that is a picture.

Sirens brought me out of my brown study of machine guns and civilian cars. We had picked up our escort. I love feeling important, even if I am not, _especially_ when I am not. I watched Phoenix fly by and just shook my head at the fact that there was not a single car in front of us. Well, that is not exactly true, one or two tried, but they got blown out of the lane by the motorcycles and I think that the sight of our monster barreling along behind was enough to make them decide that they did not want to argue the point. Who needs a machine gun when you have three highway patrol officers, two running point and one pulling drag? Life is good.

**Then**

The jeeps were starting to break the leading edge of the wind. The sand was like little shards of glass and burned where they met bare skin. Sleeves were already rolled down, shirts buttoned at the neck and collars turned up. Goggles covered eyes and bandanas covered as much of the face as possible. Hats were firmly in place and gloves covered vulnerable hands. And still the sand managed to sneak into tiny openings and sting and burn when it hit. The daylight had gone a strange blood red and visibility was about six inches.

Moffitt yelled across to Troy, "Sam, we have to stop!"

Troy grimaced and nodded. He ran his thumb across his throat and both Hitch and Tully killed their engines. With the growling of the engines gone, the storm was louder and more threatening than before. The four men climbed out of the jeeps and into a well choreographed dance of survival.

The heavy guns were freed from their mounts, wrapped in canvas and laid carefully under the jeeps. Heavy tarps were dug out from under seats and by use of heavy metal hooks, were fastened from jeep to jeep to form a sort of tent-type shelter. Boxes of ammo and jerry cans of fuel and water weighted down more canvas and blocked the sand from blowing under the jeeps and soon the four men sought shelter from the ravening winds in their makeshift tent.

"Damn, I thought I'd seen some serious sandstorms before now, but

nothing like this." Troy pulled off his hat, slammed it against his leg a couple of times to knock the sand out of it and jammed it back on his head.

Tully had already hollowed out a "bed" in the sand and was settling in for a nap. He was a firm believer in never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down and always sleep when possible because you might not get any sleep for the next week.

Hitch was scrunched back against a jeep, an intense listening expression on his face. "Sounds just like a woman screaming, doesn't it?"

Moffitt was dusting the red sand off his beret, stopped, listened intently for a long minute and then nodded slowly, "It sounds alive, almost."

Troy took a deep drink from his canteen and passed it to Hitch. "Ever hear anything, anything at all like that?"

Hitch took the canteen, drank, and nudged Tully who raised a hand, grabbed the canteen, drank and passed it on to Moffitt.

Everyone thought and mentally ran sounds from their past memories against the wailing, sobbing wind.

"I have." All heads turned to Tully as he gazed up at the canvas above him. "A painter…you know, one of them cougar cats? Heard one onct. Female, had herself a den full of babies and this bear wanted lunch. She fought that bear off, got herself hurt bad in the process, but she screamed like that wind while she was fighting to save her babies. Real spooky, it was."

Moffitt looked down at Tully and then over at Sam. Both of them knew there was a lot more to the story than Tully was telling. "Alright, Tully, how did you know she was "hurt bad," how do you know she had cubs and did you raise them after you rescued them?" There was a smile in Troy's voice.

Tully squirmed a bit in the sand like he was trying to get more comfortable, "Well, no, not exactly. I just took care of 'em till mama was back on her feet and ready to take over. She weren't real grateful for the help, kept trying to slap me while I was doctorin' her."

Hitch grinned and popped a bubble. He was always delighted when he managed to get another little tidbit about his friend's past.

Moffitt smiled and leaned back against the jeep, old stories and legends tumbling over each other in his mind as he tried to find an explanation for the incredible storm.

Sam looked around; mentally double checking to make sure they were battened down and as safe as it was possible to be during a major sandstorm. He noted the far away look on Moffitt's face and grinned, "Swallow a prune pit or just constipated, Doc?"

Jack blinked himself back into the here and now, took a second to process the question that had been asked and a slow grin grew across his face. "Perhaps a bit of both, Sam. I was just trying to remember a story that I heard an old Bedouin tell my father. I was only about nine or ten at the time, and children are terribly egotistical little creatures. If it doesn't affect them directly, they pay no attention. Now, I wish I had listened more and played less."

"Yeah, I'll bet you don't remember a thing. Just start talking and pretend that we're a bunch of students." Troy was scathing in his comment that Moffitt didn't remember, hell, the guy probably remembered being born and what was said by whom or who or whatever and to who, whatever that correct grammar stuff was.

"Well, let me think. Like I said I must have been about nine or ten so it was….about 1927, yes, that was the year that Father took me out of school and brought me here so that I could "get a feel for things," I believe that is what he called it. Anyway, we were camped in the back of beyond, with a tribe of Bedouins that Father had worked with before. I was bored with my books and I crawled under the edge of the tent where my father and this ancient, old man were talking. You know how it is when you are that young, anyone over the age of fifty is older than God and that old man was probably into his 80s, so he WAS God as far as a small child is concerned. He was telling Father about a "demon wind" that could take people, places, things and spin them into the far future or the ancient past. Sometimes the people returned to tell the stories, sometimes they were never seen again. He said the demon wind screamed with the agony of all the souls it had destroyed."

All four men cast a glance over their shoulders toward the unceasing scream of the wind and more than one face was paler than before.

"I think I fell asleep about that time because I don't remember anything else about that story. I remember questioning Father about it later and he said it was just a silly legend and to forget it. I remember thinking that was the first time he had ever lied to me. He wouldn't look me in the eye and he would never talk about the story again."

Tully and Hitch both pulled their jackets closer and neither was interested in sleep any longer.

"Okay, you're leaving a great big question mark out there. Let's have the rest of the story." Troy was never one to let sleeping dogs lay, he just had to wake them up and see what happened. He was determined to get all the information out of Moffitt that he could.

"Well, there is one thing that tends to make me believe that what the old man was talking about was a scientific fact rather than an historical legend."

"Moffitt! I am going to strangle you if you don't get on with it and stop playing games."

Jack held up his hands in surrender and gave that gentle smile that lit his face up, "Gently, old man, gently. I'm getting there. In 1935, Albert Einstein and Nathan Rosen had just published their findings on wormholes. Hang about; let me see if I can explain this properly." Moffitt stopped, thought for a couple of long minutes and then began again, "Lorentzian wormholes known as Schwarzschild wormholes or Einstein-Rosen bridges are bridges between areas of space that can be modeled as vacuum solutions to the Einstein field equations by sticking a model of a black hole and a model of a white hole together. This solution was discovered by Albert Einstein and his colleague Nathan Rosen, who first published the result in 1935. Professor Einstein guested with my parents for a couple of weeks that summer and I probably drove the poor man out of his mind with my constant barrage of questions. The simplest way he explained it was that a worm is on one side of an apple. He wants to be on the opposite side. He is not going to go through all the effort to crawl all the way around the apple; he is going to burrow straight through till he comes out on the side he wants to be on. Professor Einstein said there were still some very large gaps in their knowledge and theories, but that basically, the Wormhole theory, when combined with the Relativity theory, created time travel."

Hitch swallowed his gum and choked for a second before blurting out, "You mean like H. G. Wells and the Time Machine? That kind of time travel?"

Moffitt shook his head slowly, "No, that was a mechanical creation. And a rather enjoyable story. What both the old Bedouin and Professor Einstein were talking about is a force of nature. Not something that man created, something that Nature throws at Man and then sits back to watch the fun. Can Man survive, or have I got him….again."

Troy whistled softly through his teeth, "Damn, and you think that is what is out there?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the howling winds.

Moffitt shrugged, "It is possible."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**Now**

_And thereby hangs a tale…_

I waited. I did not wait very patiently (frankly, patience has never been one of my strong suits), but I did wait until we managed to get out of Phoenix proper before I turned in my seat and fixed Thomas with the old proverbial steely eye.

"Okay, give, FBI Man. What is all this weirdness about two feebs going poof?"

Thomas grimaced, Iverson cleared his throat, Williams kept his eyes glued to the road and I grinned like a shark. You know, lots of teeth and no humor at all. There is nothing a feeb hates worse than being called a feeb, unless it is being caught in a crossfire and discovering he forgot to put his vest on. I do so love to yank Thomas's chain.

"As you know, any felony committed on the Reservation automatically becomes a Federal matter because the Rez is Federal land."

Oh, the thrill of it all. He was going to go all pedantic and professorial on me. Like I didn't grow up in Arizona? Like I didn't run wild on the Rez with friends and not a few relatives? Mom is one-half Navaho, which makes my brothers and me one quarter and actually allows us to be put on the rolls as Navajos. Whoopee. Why? I suppose if we needed or wanted Federal help with school or something, it might be worth the trouble, but we knew who our family was and who we were and we never saw the need to put it in writing. Some things are just written on your heart.

When my brothers and I were growing up, the main reason to be anxious for summer vacation was not for school to be out, we always liked school. I know, we were considered totally weird. So why else did I gravitate to the "Situation Team?" Anyways, we were anxious for school to be out so we could go visit my mom's grandparents, the ones on her mother's side. Did I mention that the traditional Navajo family is pretty much a matriarchy?

Well, it is. If the wife gets all bent out of shape at the husband, divorce is a piece of cake. She just sets his stuff outside the house, the stuff she does not want, that is, and he better pack it up and run on home to his mama. You see, anything he brings with him to the marriage, now belongs to her. That can get very touchy when you start dealing with herds of sheep and horses and such. Kids are born "to" the mother's clan and "for" the father's clan. If there is a breakup in the marriage, there is never any question about where the kids go. They stay with their mother's clan.

Among the "progressive" Navajos, the civil law has taken the place of the Navajo traditions and I am not so sure that is such a good thing. There is a pot load of alcoholism and assorted other addictions among the "progressives" that still live on the reservation. About 80, as a matter of fact, and the scary thing is that those stats are not just the over eighteens, they include 10-year olds and up. Now if that is not enough to make you wonder what the world is coming to, I do not know what is. A 10-year old alcoholic? What will he or she be by the time they are legally old enough to vote?

Ah, man, there I go again, off on a tangent. Where was I? Oh, yeah. "Okay, Thomas, what big, bad crime had your guys running around on the Rez?"

"Drug running and murder."

I thought about that one for a moment and nodded, "Okay, that gets my attention; it sure as heck is not parking tickets. So what were they doing in one of our choppers?"

"They had gotten a tip that the truck of one of the suspects they were trying to trace had been seen up near the Arizona-Utah border. That area is a little short on decent roads and you can see someone coming a good ten miles away. The dust cloud is better than a siren for announcing your presence."

I had to agree with him on that one, especially since this year had not just been dry but it had been dryer than usual. The dust just sort of hangs there one sixteenth of an inch from the ground, like a time bomb waiting to explode. All it took was a breath of air to blow it into a cloud that could be seen for miles. If you have never seen a full blown dust storm…lucky you.

"Okay, I can see where a helicopter would make a much better bloodhound than a couple of pickups. So you conned the 943rd into letting you have a chopper and crew and off you, or rather they flew, heigh ho, heigh ho."

"Right. Only now, we have one HH-60G Sikorsky "Pave Hawk" twin-engine helicopter, one pilot, one co-pilot and one extremely rattled flight engineer shaking like a baby and no FBI agents."

I chewed on that statement for a bit before asking, "You are sure this is not a sophomoric joke? Those Airedales do like their jokes. I think there is something that is hard wired into a chopper pilot's genetic code that demands a constant stream of practical jokes."

He shook his head, "No jokes, Rachel. We have agents on the site where the chopper landed. No FBI agents. When the pilot called in to report what had happened, he was told to put down right where he was and for everyone to remain in the chopper. Once he managed to get air control to believe his story, that is. There are no footprints leading away from the chopper and we have teams walking the route from where the chopper landed to the point the engineer says they disappeared. So far, no sign of a set down or a body impact or anything out of line."

I was working on that one when Airman Williams swung into the right lane and down a long off ramp. The New River truck stop was one of the places along the road that we knew we would be able to find diesel. I glanced over at the gas gauge; it registered half full. We probably had another hundred and fifty to two hundred miles left in the gas tank, but that engine drank diesel the way an Englishman drinks tea so we do not take any chances. When we find diesel, we top off.

I was feeling a bit peckish, so while Williams took care of filling the tank and Thomas and Iverson started plotting map coordinates and plans of attack and such things as men plan when they have no blooming idea what they are going to do next, I headed inside to scout out the lay of the food.

I was in luck. They had a little deli in the back of the store and I got the kid working the counter to make me up a half dozen Italian subs. I grabbed a couple of bags of those ruffledy potato chips and, glory halleluiah; they had salt and vinegar chips! Do you know how hard those things are to find? I love them and when I _can_ find them, I buy them by the case. I restrained myself, maintained decorum and only grabbed three bags of them. Okay, okay, three was all they had so that was all I could grab. I toted that up to the register, wandered back to load up on sodas and water and by that time, Williams had come in to pay for the gas with his handy-dandy Government issued credit card.

I told him to put the food on it and tossed him a roll of paper towels to add to the growing stack of munchies. I caught his wistful sideways glance at a bag of cookies and grabbed a couple of those as well. His face lit up as only a hungry young man's can. I hoisted the bag with the chips in it, grabbed the sandwich bag and left the sodas and cookies for the pack mule….errr, Williams.

Back at the hummer, I stowed the goodies, grabbed a bottle of water when Williams arrived with his load and took a stroll around the vehicle to make sure it was holding up. It is a nervous habit I have. I _always_ do a walk around when I stop for gas or food or ahem. It may sound silly to you, but ever since someone stole a tail light from my car while I was eating breakfast years ago I have made it a habit to check things out. Yes, they stole the tail light, innards, screws, lens and bulb. I always figured they must have needed it a lot more than I did to run the risk of going to jail for a simple tail light. I stopped at the front and looked over Dan's shoulder at the map he and Thomas had spread out on the hood.

Sure enough, it was just like in that song. "Lots of circles's and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one explaining the circles's and arrows." I studied for a minute and then decided to put my two cents worth into the pot.

"Let me guess. This little X between the Kaibito and Navajo rivers is where we need to go?"

Thomas nodded.

I reached across him (okay, so I managed to get a bit of a thrill out of it) and pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket. "By the way, I sure hope you are not attached to that suit, because it is going to be ribbons by the time we get through."

He shook his head. "Smith is on his way up with my go-bag."

"Okay. You are going to have to get on the horn and give him very specific directions because we are not going to Page."

Everyone just looked at me like I had lost my mind.

"Hello? Just who was born and raised in this state?" I rolled my eyes and waited for the silly light bulbs to go on over their heads. "Okay, when we get to Flagstaff, we leave I-17 and head north on State Road 89. That reminds me, Williams, top off in Flagstaff and make sure the Jerry Cans are full. No diesel where we are headed unless you haul it in yourself." I waited for his agreement and bent back to the map, "We stay on 89 until we hit a spot in the road called The Gap." I circled it on the map. "Nope, it is not a city or a town or even a wide spot in the road; it is a sign. That is all it is. We will haul off to the right on what is laughingly called an _unimproved road. _This is mapese for forty miles of two lane hard dirt. And it is also just about how far it is from 89 to Kaibito which _is_ a wide spot in the road. There is a Laundromat, a café, a post office, a grocery and a two pump gas station, population…just over fifteen hundred. There we pick up State Road 98, cross the river and go exactly nine point seven miles and turn North on another _unimproved road._ This one is barely one lane, so tell Smith to make sure he has four-wheel drive and a high clearance. I'll get on the phone, call Grandmother Agnes and tell her I am bringing company for dinner." I dropped that bombshell and strolled away very pleased with myself.

I found a quiet spot behind the building and I called the Tuba City Navajo Police Station. I got the dispatcher, explained who I was and we swapped Clans, chit chatted a bit, and found out we were related back a ways. That sort of thing always helps when you are asking for a favor. I asked her if she had a vehicle anywhere in the vicinity of Agnes Billy's outfit and if she did would they pass along the message that the daughter of her granddaughter was coming with friends and the man she would marry when he learned his manners. That got a laugh from her and a promise to do what she could to warn Agnes that she had company coming. I thanked her and strolled back to the vehicle smug as a Mississippi riverboat gambler with four Aces and a joker.

**Chapter 4**

**Then**

The next 12 hours were the longest that any of the four men had ever experienced. Sleep had been impossible. Every time one of them started to doze off, the wind seemed to sense it and screamed like a child, a man in agony, a woman in mortal fear, a dying dog, a cat, a friend. At one point they even thought they heard an odd whomp-whomp-whomp followed by a chorus of male voices screaming in fear until suddenly all the sounds were gone.

Exhausted, cranky, cramped, hungry and thirsty, they crawled out from their makeshift shelter and gazed at a dawning day that was clear as a still pool of water. All four made a fast break in different directions for that most important of morning rituals. Moffitt got back to the jeeps first and pulled the canvas back and started to make a small fire for coffee and tea, if there was enough water for both.

Suddenly, a ghost white Hitch topped the dune and yelled at Moffitt to hurry. He turned and ran back down the dune leaving Jack to smother the fire, grab a Thompson and follow. As Jack topped the dune, he spotted the other three standing around what appeared to be a couple of dark lumps in the sand. He jogged to join them and suddenly backpedaled a couple of steps when he realized he was looking at the hideously mangled bodies of two men.

"Dear God! Where did they come from? And what happened to them?"

Hitch and Tully just stared and said nothing. Tully actually looked a bit green and Hitch was NOT chewing his gum.

Troy swallowed and knelt down beside the closest body, "Damn, they're in suits. Weird ones, but suits, and regular street shoes, ties, where the hell were they going? I think, well, what it looks like, back in England, before we shipped over, there was a parachute accident. Guy's chute didn't open and he fell all the way to the ground. It was ugly, like these guys."

Moffitt knelt down beside Troy and carefully turned the body over. It was like shifting a bag of rocks and he could hear bones grinding together. Hitch or Tully, frankly, Moffitt was afraid to move his head too fast and look, started vomiting. Jack had the urge to join him. Troy swallowed hard and checked for identification. "No dog tags. Huh. Who the hell are these guys!?" He finally found a flat wallet in a pocket and opened it.

"What the hell!?"

"What is it, Sam?"

"F.B.I. This guy is damn F.B.I.! What the hell is he doing out here…" He trailed off and stared at the identification in his hand. "No, can't be." He shook his head and passed it over to Moffitt.

Jack studied the wallet and his eyes went very wide. "1997? Surely the Germans would not make that kind of mistake with forged documents. This has to be forged!"

By this time Sam had been through both men's' clothing and had a small stack of paper, wallets, a couple of weapons of strange make and a couple of hand sized, folded up whatevers. "What the hell is Sprint? With a capitol S?" He tossed the small item to Moffitt who turned it over in his hands and discovered that it opened like a small notebook. A light came on, dimmed and he could just barely see the words, No Service. There was a keyboard on half of the thing, but the keys were so tiny that it surely was not some kind of new typewriter. He looked up to see Sam staring at him with an expression that he had never seen on the man's face. Fear, curiosity, anger, all seemed to be rolled into one. "What?"

"When did Alaska become a state?

"Alaska? A state? You mean as in a state of the United States?"

Troy nodded.

"Well, to the best of my knowledge, it isn't. It is a pretty, but useless chunk of snow and ice as I understand it. No natural resources, just deer, bear, whales, Inuit, and lots of trappers, oh, and a bit of gold. But a state? No."

Troy looked over at Hitch and Tully who shook their heads.

"Well, this guy is carrying a driver's license issued by the State of Alaska in the year 2002. Explain that to me."

"Some kind of bizarre error in Berlin's forgery ministry?"

"Sarge?" Hitch had conquered his stomach and was carefully examining the two weapons that Troy had laid aside. "This one here, it looks sorta like your .45 but it's smaller and it says "Sig Sauer" on the barrel. What the hell is a "Sig Sauer" and who makes it?"

While Troy and Moffitt stared at the gun and then each other, Tully chimed in with, "Hey, this un ain't even made outta metal!! It's like that fancy Bakelite stuff that they are making radios out of. G-Lock? Glock? How can a gun be made out of something other than metal?"

Troy gave it up and just sat down in the middle of the sand, "Hell, I don't know. I don't know who these guys are, where they are from, what the hell those guns are, I'm not even sure I know who I am any more."

Hitch shoved his hat back from his forehead and looked around slowly, "Well, if nothing else, we might want to get these poor fellows buried before the scavengers give us away to the Germans."

"Good point." Troy stood up, stared down at the two dead men for a moment and then turned back toward the jeeps. "Strip 'em. I'll get some canvas to bury them in, but I want every thing on those guys to turn over to headquarters. No body's gonna believe us anyway, maybe if we have enough proof, they won't laugh us out of Africa."

The three men carefully undressed the men and laid their belongings aside. Troy trotted back down the dune with a roll of canvas under one arm and a couple of collapsible shovels and an empty duffle under the other arm.

Tully and Hitch started digging while Moffitt and Troy wrapped each man in canvas. Moffitt used his fountain pen to write the names on the canvas. Timothy J. Norbel and John H. Verig. "Someday, someone might want to find them and give them a proper burial."

Troy grunted, packed the men's' belongings in the duffle and using the sun compass plotted the burial site on their map. "Yeah, probably, when all this insanity is over."

He carried the bag back to the jeep and returned with two more collapsible shovels. The graves were dug in short order and the bodies lowered. The four men stood with their heads bowed and finally Troy cleared his throat, "Lord, we don't know who these men are, what they are and if someone is just playing a colossal joke, but they belong to you now and when you see them, tell them we're sorry we couldn't give them a better send off. Amen." He coughed and starting back filling the holes. Less than an hour later, the four men had cleared their campsite and were ready to move on.

None of them had any desire to stay in the vicinity of the two graves and the strangers they had buried.

"Let's shake it."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

**Now**

_The road less traveled…_

When I got back to the hummer, Thomas had stripped out of his jacket, his Kevlar vest, and shed his tie. His shirt was soaked through with sweat and Williams and Iverson were not much better off, sweat wise. But at least they didn't have to worry about ties. Ties are kind of useless with BDUs. Why on earth any sane person would voluntarily put a noose around his neck on a daily basis is way beyond my meager ability to comprehend.

Airman Williams was attacking one of the subs as if he had not eaten in a week of Sundays. Well, he was still just a growing kid, nineteen just last week. We had a bit of a party at the hangar for him and embarrassed him beyond all belief.

Iverson was typing something into his laptop and muttering under his breath. I have learned when an NCO mutters, just stay out of their way, do not interfere, do not interrupt, do not suggest, and do not clear your throat. Doing any of those things can be seriously hazardous to the doer's health and well-being.

"Did you get through to your great grandmother?" Thomas was rustling in the bag for a sandwich of his own while he asked.

"No phone service out where she lives. Or electricity so no cell phones, either, or running water for that matter. I called the Tuba City Navajo Police substation. The dispatcher said that there was a deputy in the general area and she would have him warn her that we were coming. Turns out the dispatcher is a sort of a cousin about sixty five times removed or something like that." I looked at the map again and shook my head. "This is just a little to coincidental for me to like. And I hate coincidences."

"What do you mean?" Thomas stopped unwrapping his sandwich and Iverson and Williams both looked up with questions written all over their faces.

"What are the odds of something unexplained happening less than 20 miles as the crow flies from the home of the great grandmother of the head of the team that is going to be involved in investigating the unexplained incident? I do not believe in coincidence."

Thomas ran a hand over his chin and looked pensive, "You have a point and it is one that I do not like the ramifications of."

"Join the club," I muttered.

Iverson grunted and tapped Jones on his shoulder, "Got the message through to Smith along with a map. He says he is going to try to rent a hummer or a jeep. He doesn't think anything in the motor pool will handle the terrain. He'll bring your go-bag with him and will be an hour or so behind us."

"Thanks, Dan, I appreciate it." Thomas nodded and bit into his sandwich like it was going to try to escape.

The dynamic between Dan and Thomas had changed radically from their first meeting. Dan had finally accepted that Thomas and I had a relationship and there was nothing he could do about it. Daddy Dan tries to take care of all his children and trust me, he considers me a child. A semi-intelligent child, but still a child. Besides, I think Su Feng read him the riot act about keeping his nose out of other people's romances. Anyway, they actually seemed to be getting along now. And if they weren't, they were doing a darn good job of faking it. And if they were faking it, Oscars should be awarded for Best Acting in a Reality Series.

"Dan, contact base and give TSgt. Wallis the coordinates and the map directions to our soon to be location. Have him get the lead elements on the road and headed our way within two hours. Tell him to make sure the vehicles have spare fuel and water, tires, batteries, fan belts, so on and so forth. He needs to tell them to top off fuel every chance they get once they get North of Phoenix. Have him hold off on sending out the full team until we contact him again. I do not like having all of our personnel headed this way at one time. We may have to do some readjusting of location and I would rather not have everyone running around chasing tails. Have them load up on diesel and to haul a couple of refuel tanks. Oh, and tell them to requisition as many water buffalos as we have free tow bars to haul them with, clean 'em and make sure they are full of potable water. Test the water in each buffalo after it is filled. Water is gold out there and I am not going to run my relatives' well dry supporting this crew."

I stopped and thought for a minute and then continued, "Tell him to make sure that Corny and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) and anything they even think they might need are in the lead group. I also want several buffalo in the lead element. And the commo trailer along with Senior Airman Titus."

I climbed into the front seat of the hummer, grabbed a sandwich, a coke and a bag of salt and vinegar chips (no, I do not share them with anyone, not even Thomas, certain things I am just plain selfish about). I thought for a bit while eating and finally realized that I was going to have to play school teacher if I did not want my very traditional relatives insulted and on the warpath. Oops, sorry, that pun was strictly unintentional.

"Okay, guys, listen up and, Dan, what I am about to say, I want you to take down verbatim and email back to base as urgent."

They kept eating, Dan nodded, but I had their full attention.

"When we get to Grammy Agnes's home, do not get out of the vehicle. Got that?" They looked confused but nodded or grunted. "It is a matter of courtesy. When you live ten miles on the back side of beyond and do not have a phone, you like a little time to be ready for guests. Time to comb your hair. Make the bed, pick up the dirty clothes. Put on your best bib and tucker, or maybe just any bib and tucker." That got a laugh out of Thomas and a smile from Williams. Dan was too busy typing to do anything else. "When we drive up, you stop about fifty yards from the Hogan, got that, Williams?"

He swallowed in a hurry and nodded, "yes, ma'am. Fifty yards out, stop and stay in the vehicle. Do I leave the engine running?"

"No, you shut down but you do not step out until someone comes out of the hogan and motions you to come along."

"Yes, ma'am."

I took another bite and chewed on it a bit longer than it deserved, trying to get my thoughts straight in my mind and my mind in gear before I put my mouth in motion. That sort of cogitation can save serious embarrassment down the road.

"Okay, here we go. Do not offer to shake hands. It is not a Navajo 'thing.' Frankly, they do not understand why the _belagaana_, the white man, and that includes you, Dan, even if you are black, you aren't Navajo, so you are white. Anyway, they do not understand why the _belagaana_ are always running around shaking hands; it does not make any sense to them. If someone offers to shake your hand, do it. They are trying to be courteous and abide by our traditions. No limp wrists or macho shakes, just shake once and back off. Do not stare directly at anyone, it is considered rude, looking is fine, but don't stare. Yeah, yeah, it is hell on interrogation methods. In addition, keep your mouth shut until you are absolutely sure that whoever you are talking with is finished with what they are saying. And yes, it will make for some long silences, but that is better than stepping on their words, oh, and that reminds me, keep your feet on the ground. No leg crossing and do not put your ankles on your knees. Rude. And do not step over anyone. If you need to get someplace and you would have to step over any part of someone, stop and ask them to move. Again, seriously rude. Never, never, ever, ever, ever speak the name of anyone who is dead. Never, never, never. You can refer to them obliquely, like, oh, the son of the woman who lives in the Wahsach Canyon, or something like that. Saying the name out loud calls the Chindè's, or ghost's attention and tends to draw them back to their earthly home and that is not a good thing. Ghosts are never Casper-types, they are vicious and malicious."

"Dang, I forgot. Dan, tell Wallis to hit the commissary for a couple of cartons of cigarettes and charge them off on our budget. Always offer a cigarette to your host, hostess, or anyone you want to hold a conversation with. They may not take it, but give them the choice. They will understand if you do not smoke, but the Navajos are great smokers, from age ten on up. Just grit your teeth and keep your tongue behind them. Williams, before we leave, run back into the store and buy a couple of disposable lighters and two, no, make that four packs of cigarettes. It doesn't matter what brand as long as they are unfiltered. And see if they have any orange soda, Grammy Agnes loves orange soda and we are going to want her on our side if we need to go into the canyons. She owns the horses and…" I looked at the men and grimaced. "She is a _seeing woman. _She sees things that others do not or cannot. The first one to snicker, dies, got it?" There was not a snicker in the bunch and everyone got to live another day, well, okay, another hour at least. "Uncle Old Tree is the brother of my mother's mother and he is a Singer. That is a shaman or a healer or a medicine man or a priest to those off the Rez. It does NOT mean witch doctor. Primitive does not mean stupid, keep that in mind or you will have to deal with me after Grammy Agnes get through with you and she won't leave much."

Thomas blinked a couple of times and then nodded as if suddenly everything suddenly made sense, "Your great grandmother is a psychic and sees visions and your uncle is a shaman. No wonder you gravitated to the job you have." He started to take a bite, stopped, stared at me speculatively and frowned, "How many horses do I have to give for you?"

I glared at him, Williams almost choked on the gulp of soda that collided with a laugh and Iverson came out with his famous or infamous, depending on your point of view, cough.

I decided to go with the flow, "I am a ten horse and twenty sheep woman. Very expensive and Grammy Agnes will probably want at least two squash blossom necklaces in addition to the livestock, so you better start saving up."

He laughed and two pointed his empty soda can into the trash barrel. I noted a big semi coming down off the highway and figured we might want to clear the pumps so he could fuel up. Williams got the same idea at almost the same time and before I could say anything, he moved the hummer out of the bay and under a very anemic mesquite tree. He has got the makings of a very good troop. He thinks. While the rest of us finished chowing out, Williams went back into the little store and shortly came out with two bags, one large, one small. "I got the cigarettes and all the orange soda they had, okay?"

"Great. Put it in the back, let's police the area and get back on the road."

In less that two minutes, we were back on the road and Williams was making that hummer…hum. Oh, now that pun was purely intentional. I still can not figure out how Farmer had taken a vehicle that has a max speed of 65 and managed to force thirty or more miles an hour out of it. Maybe I do not want to know, come to think of it. It might be real magic and then I would have to try to explain it in scientific terms to the powers that be and I have no desire at all to even think about that. I am just going to accept that Farmer is a genius with an engine and not look gift horses, errr hummers, in the grill.

**Then**

The Rat Patrol was off their game and decidedly lacking in enthusiasm. For some reason, they were all haunted by the events of the last 24 hours. When they checked the horizon, it was sand storms and not German columns they found themselves looking for. Finally, Troy had had enough.

"Screw this. Pull up, Hitch."

As Hitch pulled the jeep to a halt in a small wadi, Tully pulled in behind him. They turned their engines off and all four men sat silently for a long time before Troy dismounted and motioned them set up camp. Moffitt took high scout; Troy trudged back down their path and checked their tail. Hitch and Tully settled the jeeps in and started a thorough inspection. Fuel was replenished, hoses checked, oil and brake fluid levels checked and water cans set in front of each jeep, just waiting for the engines to cool enough to be topped off. Tires were inspected and Tully crawled under each jeep, checking brake and fuel lines. By the time they were done with the jeeps and a fire shelter had been put together out of odds and ends, Troy and Moffitt were back.

"See anything, old man?" Moffitt dropped lightly to the sand and stuffed his beret under an epaulet.

Troy shook his head and thumbed his hat back off his forehead, "You?"

Moffitt grimaced, "A bit of dust, at the horizon. My estimate 20 to 25 miles. It's hard to tell at this time of day."

"Okay, get some hot food into everyone and then kill that fire. We sit dark tonight."

Tully switched the match stick from one side of his mouth to the other, which for him, was the equivalent of "sir, yes, sir."

Hitch and Tully had a more or less (actually less, but when you are hungry, anything will do) palatable meal ready to eat and the fire out inside of thirty minutes. Three mugs of coffee and one of tea helped to warm not only the hands and body, but the soul as well.

Troy sat hunched in on himself, his chin down on his chest, staring into the metal cup. Finally, he looked up and turned to Moffitt, "Okay, Professor, speculate."

"I beg your pardon?" He was stalling and everyone, including him, knew it.

"Don't go all polite on me, dump it out on the sand, let's kick it around a while, pick it apart and see what we come up with."

"Ah, yes, brainstorming, of course."

Tully rolled his eyes and Hitch gave that lop-sided half grin of his. Troy just stared and finally Moffitt gave in.

"As I am sure you aware, this whole event has been running through my head and I've been looking at it from many different directions. Look at their money." He laid out several bills and a handful of coins. "The colors are wrong on the bills and the coins are not silver, but that is not the strangest thing." He picked up a quarter, "I assume this is a quarter?"

"Looks like one," came Tully's laconic reply.

"Well, it can't be. It has an engraving of the state of Ohio and the year 2002 on it."

"What?! Troy snatched the coin from Moffitt's hand and stared at the depiction of his home state. "Damn! It is Ohio…and it is a quarter. But it can't be, it's 1942!!"

"Yes, for us it is 1942, but for those poor souls, I think it was 2007."

"How do you figure that, Doc?" Hitch was leaning over Troy's shoulder to look at the strange quarter.

"Because the latest date is on a quarter with Wyoming on it and the date is 2007. And look at this dollar bill…Series A, 2003, and it is signed by Anna Escobedo Cabral, a woman."

"Hell, why not? My pa writes that women is taking over a lot of the jobs back home. They're even building airplanes." Tully didn't seem unduly concerned about a woman as America's treasurer. "Hell, most women pay the bills and figure the budgets anyhow. Makes sense to have 'em making the money."

Moffitt laughed softly, "You are so right, but we males seldom admit they are better at finances than we are. They are much more aware of what money buys and how to stretch it the most, but the point is, this money should not, can not exist in 1942. And what are these things?" He laid out the two palm sized items. "They open up, they light up, they have very small keyboards and on, what I assume to be a view screen, the words appear "No Signal." What signal? They can't be typewriters; the keys are much too tiny. They aren't alike and as near as I can tell, they don't serve any purpose."

The other three men carefully examined the two strange objects. "Hey, the light is getter dimmer on this one and there are new words, "Hitch squinted to read the tiny letters, "Battery Low Please Recharge." Huh? This thing's not much bigger than a battery already, and how on earth would you recharge it? And with what?" Frustration was beginning to color Hitch's words.

"I have no idea, Private, none whatsoever. I can't even speculate on what the thing is, much less how you would recharge it." When Moffitt reverted to using ranks everyone knew that he was close to the exploding point. He had a good, analytical brain and prided himself on being able to figure out almost everything he ran up against, but this was out of even his scope and it was causing serious heartburn.

Troy reached over and picked up a small, flat piece of what looked like fancy glass, but it was much to skinny, "MasterCard? What the hell is that?"

"Damned if I know, Sergeant, I am just as much in the dark as you are." Moffitt snapped back.

"Easy, Jack, we are all treading new ground here and we are just as lost as you are." Troy laid the card back down on the sand and reached for what appeared to be a stack of letters.

"No, Sam. I've already looked at those and they are of no interest to us."

Troy cocked his head and looked at Moffitt quizzically, "Oh?"

Moffitt sighed, "They are letters from John Verig's wife. Basically, they are love letters and her telling him about how their baby moved inside her the other day. They don't need to be read by all and sundry and if there is a way to get these back to that woman, we must find it."

Tully leaned back against the jeep and looked into the deepening dark around them. "Poor lady, she don't even know she's a widow, and with a baby comin'."

Troy gritted his teeth against the sadness he felt for the unknown woman and grunted, "Damn lot of those women out there in the dark. We can't take on all their troubles."

"No, Sam, but this is slightly different." Moffitt shook his head, "She may never know she is a widow, he's here in this now and she is there in what I suppose I would call "then." How do we contact anyone to let them know that two FBI agents are dead? They aren't from now and if we reported them to an office in this now…how would they notify an office in that then, and would they even believe us? I know I don't believe me and I am sitting here with the evidence in my lap."

"Damn, Moffitt, you can use more words to say we are screwed than anyone I know." Troy almost laughed as he said the words.

"Oh, just one of my minor talents among the bits and pieces."

That got a smile and a short walk back down memory lane to the time that the three first met Moffitt. The smiles didn't last long and soon all four men were wrapped in their blankets and their confusing thoughts as sleep slipped over the sand and ambushed them.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

**Now**

_The Old Folks at home…_

The drive into Flagstaff was, well, boring. Williams was doing a first rate job of staying ahead, around and past the traffic. I guess the FBI must have had a long, serious talk with the State Police because every time we saw one, they just waved as we blew past them. Sweet. Dan was staying on top of things back at the base via sat phone and internet. Thomas was dozing in the back seat, looking as comfortable as it is possible to look under the circumstances.

Which reminds me…how on earth does anyone figure out how to get "under" circumstances? I've never even seen one so I do not have any idea how to slither under one. What is a circumstance? What does it look like? How much room is under one and are they safe to climb under? Never mind, I am off on a tangent again, aren't I?

I should have been trying to sleep, also, but my brain refused to shut off and I kept coming back to the fact that somehow my family was tied up with the disappearance of two men. It just did not make sense. Grammy Agnes and Uncle Old Tree (that is not his real name, but it is what everyone calls him, which is another story in itself) were not the law breaking type. Both were traditional Navajos. They didn't have a still, or raise pot or smuggle drugs or anything like that. Hell, Uncle was nearly eighty and Grammy was two days older than dirt. They raise sheep, spin the wool and make the most beautiful blankets you have ever seen. Uncle makes some very nice pottery and it sells at the Kaibito cultural center for a very nice price. The blankets go on down to the big cultural center near Phoenix and, trust me; you need to take a second mortgage on your house to buy one. Uncle holds Sings for those who needs them and usually takes his fee in sheep or whatever his customer could afford. They are not rich but they are not starving. And I could not think of a single reason for them to be involved, even peripherally, in this mess.

You are soooo lucky. I am not going to bore you with the drive once we got out of Flagstaff, other than to mention that the mountains and the Vermillion Cliffs can rip your heart right out of your chest with their beauty. Once we got five miles past The Gap, even Williams admitted defeat and slowed down to a rocky fifty to sixty miles an hour and sometimes he even dropped to forty. Trust me, the road is bad enough but when you put a hummer on it, oh my God, Heads bumped windows, collided with the overhead, teeth slammed together and judging by the low, steady stream of invective coming from Thomas's side of the back seat, they caught a tongue at least once. Ouch. Finally, Williams gave it up as a bad job and dropped down into the thirties and forties. Frustrating for him, I think he was a Grand Prix driver in a former life and just dearly loves to go fast, fast, faster, but much more comfortable for the passengers.

When we hauled into Kaibito I got a shock. There used to be two gas pumps, now there were four and miracle of miracles, a diesel pump. I tapped Williams on the arm and pointed. He is quick on the uptake and we were sliding into the station and up to that lovely diesel pump in nothing flat. As we bailed out, I pulled out my sat phone and contacted the Tuba City dispatcher. She had managed to get a deputy that was close enough and he ran a fast trip to Grammy's place to warn her I was coming. Grace Long Deer (the dispatcher) passed along a message to me from Grammy that had me choking, blushing and trying to laugh all at the same time. Hey, I do good to walk and talk at the same time. You want me to do three things simultaneously? Get a grip.

I put the phone away, hit the little room at the back of the station and feeling much better, walked into the rather large convenience store that was attached to the gas pumps. Not quite a full-fledged grocery store, but more than a 7-11. Most of the people that lived in the area worked on a subsistence level budget and lived from check to check. Believe it or not, unlike places off the Rez, here you can run a tab. In fact, way in the back is the Pawn. No, it is not a Pawn Shop, as most people know it. It is just a little corner of the store with a few bits of jewelry and belt buckles and such like for sale. Those are the items that either went waaaay past their deadline or the owners died and the family refused to redeem them. The safe is where the Pawn is. Folks come by, pawn a necklace or a belt, or earrings, pay a little on their tab, pick up some groceries and head home. The next time they come by, if they are flush, they redeem their pawn, if not; they pay on the interest, pick up some groceries and head home. The old man who owns this place is never going to get wealthy. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that his family has an outside income, uranium, yeah, the Rez has a lot of pockets of the stuff, anyway, if it weren't for the outside income, he would be up the spout in a week. I think he runs this place because he likes to see a lot of people on a regular basis.

"Rachel, little girl! How are you? It has been at least a year since I have seen you through here. Agnes Billy was in here a couple of weeks ago getting orange soda and complaining that you do not take the time to come and see her. She says you act like you have no relatives." He gave me a reproachful glare that was ruined by the laughter in his eyes.

"Hello, Uncle." No, he is not my Uncle, it is just a courtesy. Navajo kids, and part Navajo kids, are taught respect for their elders. "You are very right, it has been at least a year and I am covered with shame for the omission."

"Oh, yes, I can see the ashes on your face and your hair has been cut very short."

I laughed, gave him a hug and tugged on his graying hair.

About that time, Thomas wandered into the store wiping the sweat off his face with his sleeve. He looked the place over like any law enforcement officer would and inside of ten seconds had the exits, people, and potential ambush spots plotted in his mind.

Uncle Joe squinted at him, pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "This is the one? The one that must learn his manners before you will wed?"

I laughed hard enough to have everyone in the store looking over to see what was happening. "Let me guess, the deputy that ran a message to Grammy Agnes came by here to get gas and coffee and to spread the news."

"No, I read it on the wind." He winked at me. "Of course, the wind was wearing a uniform."

"Uh huh. Any one I know? Or has there been another turnover of deputies?"

"Michael Laphie, he is Folded Arms People on his mother's side and Red Running into the Water on his father's side."

I thought for a couple of minutes and then shook my head, "No, I don't know him. He is not a relation."

Uncle shook his head, "No, not a relative to me either, but he is a good deputy. He just recently transferred from Gallop and has been here nearly six months."

"That is a long way. Has he family here?"

"I think he has a sister, a widow, and she has children. If I remember correctly, they are all that is left of their family so he transferred to be close to her. This is a good thing."

I nodded, "Yes, it is. He is a good brother." And yes, my language starts to take on the flavor and cadence of my people very quickly. It isn't something I can help, it just happens. About that time, Thomas joined me and listened without saying a word.

"Uncle Joe, here is Thomas Jones. He is with the FBI and he is a good man. When he has saved up enough for ten horses and twenty sheep, I will marry him. Thomas, here is Uncle Joe KaiBii. He is the owner of this store and gas station and a very good story teller."

I saw Thomas's arm jerk as he started to extend his hand for a shake, stop himself and then nod, "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. KaiBii." He mangled the name, but unless you grow up speaking Navajo, forget being able to pronounce it correctly. That little language idiosyncrasy is the reason that the Navajos were used as "Code Talkers" during World War II. That code was never broken and even today, a monster Cray could not break it because it is a "spoken" code and without the little nuances and accents, that giant computer would have no starting point.

Uncle Joe looked him up and down, nodded and slowly extended his hand. "My little girl here speaks highly of you."

I choked on a laugh and so did Thomas as he took the extended hand, shook it once and then let go. He looked up at me and grinned, "She is not so little, Mr. KaiBii."

Uncle Joe grunted and then grinned, "You are right, Nephew. She is not a small girl, but she will always be "little girl" to me."

Sheesh, okay, so I am six feet five inches. What is the big deal?

Thomas is quick on the pick up. He immediately realized that he had made the grade, so to speak, when Uncle Joe called him Nephew.

"Uncle, I am here because Coyote is playing his tricks again." I gave Thomas a look that shut him up before he even thought the question through.

"Have skin walkers been loose in the area or have unknown people been seen where they should not be seen?"

Uncle Joe gazed into the distance both to think and to make sure I was through talking, and then he nodded slowly. "Coyote is here, for maybe a week now he has been here. Your Uncle Old Tree told me that he saw a German tank last week."

That had the attention of me and everyone in hearing range. One old woman nodded sharply and folded her arms as if to dare me to contradict what had just been said. I waited and then asked, "The remains of one? Like from a museum?"

"No, little girl, it was one like he saw in Africa during the big war. It was alive and Coyote was driving it."

Thomas's mouth came open a couple of times but he shut it and I could see the effort he was putting into keeping it shut.

"Has anyone else seen this tank and Coyote?"

"Huh!" It was the old woman.

I waited politely and she decided that my manners were acceptable.

"My man, he also fight in the big war in the big desert. He drive a tank and fight what was left of the Germans before they all ran back to Hitler's land. Then he and Old Tree go to other side of world to be Wind Speakers. Washindon be Akalh Bi-kosi-la." Her man had been a Marine, or was a Marine, depending on your point of view.

"Your hogan is honored to have such as him in it."

"Huh, this I know. Old Tree, he also Washindon be Akalh Bi-kosi-la. Good man. Good Singer. You not Washindon be Akalh Bi-kosi-la. Old Tree say you Wo-Tah-de-ne-Ih. You Fly Girl. He say you Warrier Woman and you have met the enemy and counted coup. He say this good thing also. We see, we see." She had spoken her piece and turned back to her shopping, our conversation was over.

"Uncle, do you have plenty of diesel? And can you get more? I will have many vehicles headed through here soon."

"I will have enough for your people. Go to your family and introduce your man before the many show up." He reached for the phone and just that quickly, our conversation was over. I grabbed Thomas by the arm and hustled him out before he could jump in and ask an unwanted question.

"I'll explain later. Let's hustle it. I want to get settled before the rest show up."

Williams aimed the Hummer down the road into the blowing dust.

**Then**

Dawn brought no enlightenment, if anything, it brought further confusion and with the confusion, a feeling a depression and anger. All four men were morose, moody and slow to perform their morning rituals.

"Okay, let's shake it off. What happened, happened. We ain't gonna figure out what happened until we get a lot more information and if we keep moping around like this, we are all gonna catch a good case of the deads." Troy stood up, tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the tiny fire and trudged up the dunes to take a look around for the enemy, or anything else that might be stirring.

"Quite right, old man." Moffitt drained his tea; it was too precious to use putting out fires and tucked his cup back onto his canteen. He picked up his Thompson and headed in the opposite direction to see what was to be seen.

Hitch and Tully buried the remains of the fire and the detritus of their meals. It never paid to leave stuff lying around for the wind to pick up or for the sun to reflect off of. It was a giveaway to the enemy and with the Afrika Korps out there, they needed all the sneakiness they could muster.

Tully topped off the radiators on both jeeps while Hitch ran a quick check on the heavy guns to make sure the sand had not jammed any of the works. Both of them got the jeeps ready to go and settled into their seats to wait for the word to go.

A sharp whistle from Troy had Moffitt turning quickly and then running to join him on the top of the dunes. Hitch and Tully started the jeeps and got ready to go.

"German convoy?" Moffitt asked as he focused his binoculars.

"Think so. It looks right and that's the heading one would take from the coast to tie up with Rommel. Looks like, what, half a dozen tanks, thirty or forty transports?"

Moffitt studied the shapes in the distance for a long moment, "A bit out of our range, don't you think, Sam?"

"Yeah, damnit. Too big, too much protection. The best we could do is try taking out the trailing edge as it goes by, heading for the hills and coming back to try for a few more. Not enough return for the risk…unless…let me think on this a bit. Let's get a bit further from the track and see what we can see as they go by. Depending on what they are transporting, we could race ahead, set explosives in the track, take out some of the middle trucks, especially if they are carrying ammo or fuel and then pick off some of the others."

Moffitt studied the convoy for several long minutes and then nodded. "I think it just might work."

In short work, the jeeps were pulled back into another wadi away from the road and camouflaged with netting. The four men found perches on opposite sides of the track and dug themselves into the sand to wait out the convoy and the burning African sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

**Now**

_When a Tree Talks…_

Right about here is where things started to get even weirder. Just before we pulled into my Great-grandmother's "outfit" the wind started whipping up and before you knew it, we had a major dust storm swirling around us. Williams pulled the hummer up, just like I had told him and killed the engine. Before we could even unfasten our seatbelts (yes, hummers have them, they don't get used much in combat, but they have them), Uncle Old Tree leaned out of the hogan and motioned us along. There was urgency in his manner that had me chivvying the guys out of the vehicle and chasing them into the hogan.

"Spirit Wind." Was all Uncle said before he wrapped me in a surprisingly strong bear hug.

Next Grammy had me by the waist and was squeezing the breath out of me.

"I have missed you both, so much." I hugged back and blinked my eyes rapidly, that dang dust can really cause problems.

Grammy slapped at my arm, "Huh, you missed us so much you have not come to see us since you have been back in your home. You have been here two months, and you have not been to see us. Why is that, daughter of my grandchild?" Boy, she could cut to the chase faster than any ten people I know.

"I have been just a bit busy, Grammy." Was that a whine in my voice? I never whine!

"Yes, yes, I know. You are an important Warrior Woman and the world will cease to exist as we know it if you are distracted." I heard Uncle chuckle and knew that I had to distract _her_ fast or I was never going to dig myself out of this one. And by the way, yes, I do tend to sound like her. She's my hero.

"No, not that, I have been trying to make this worthless man fit for you to meet." It worked. Thomas may never speak to me again, but Grammy was sidetracked. I had the urge to check myself for wounds when Thomas glared at me. I'm not certain, but I think there is knife sticking out of my back.

"So, this is the one you have chosen." She walked over to Thomas, looked him up and down and then walked slowly around him. He gritted his teeth and glared at me again. "Yes, he looks capable of siring many children." Leave it to Grammy. Iverson started coughing, Williams turned purple. I think he was holding his breath to keep from laughing. Thomas, poor Thomas, he turned a slow red and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Does he make you smile in the blankets?"

"GRAMMY!"

"Huh. Children always think they are the only ones who know about sex. How do you think you got here?" She snorted and creaked off to stoke the fire under the old coffee pot.

"I'm going to get you for this." Thomas muttered in my ear and I smiled lamely.

"Hey, she likes you."

"Oh, yeah, how can you tell?"

This loving little bit a conversation was interrupted when Uncle pushed us gently in the general direction of the fire and started settling us in an amazing variety of chairs. Soon we all had a container of coffee, some mugs, some glasses, and Thomas had Grammy's prize teacup, the only piece left of a set that her husband had bought for her more than seventy years ago. Yup, she liked him.

Grammy kept up a running interrogation that had Thomas scrambling for answers. If the FBI were smart, they would hire a bunch of grandmothers as interrogators. Nothing gets past them, they don't hesitate to ask whatever crosses their minds, they think waaaaaaay outside the box, and they refuse to take "I don't know" for an answer.

Dan and Williams did their best to become part of the background as I talked with Uncle.

"Uncle, Uncle Joe tells me that Coyote has been seen in this place. Is this a true telling?"

Uncle Old Tree nodded slowly. "Yes, I saw him with my own eyes. Old Man Logan was with me at the time. We spoke the code words together in the Big War."

"Yes, I know. I think I met his woman in Kaibito. She said he served in Africa before he was shipped to the Pacific. Not in those words, but that's what she meant."

He nodded firmly, "We met in Africa. The war there was nearly over, but we leaned about the tanks and heard many tales about the desert and its Chindés. We spoke the words that fooled the enemy and helped the war to end there."

Okay, so both men had served in Africa, had seen the Panzers in action and would probably recognize one if they saw it. So how on earth was a Panzer running around Arizona? How did it get here, what was it doing and what did it have to do with two missing FBI agents. Like I said, my weirdometer was maxed out.

Pretty soon Grammy ran out of questions and fluttered her hands at Thomas, "Go and help your woman make the camp place for her warriors who will come. Uncle and I will ready a meal. Go, go, go." She stood up and walked away. I motioned Thomas outside with me and he followed with a shell-shocked expression on his face.

"Does your Grammy Agnes know EVERYTHING?!"

I grinned at him, "She nailed you on some pretty personal stuff, huh?"

Thomas glared at me while the back of his neck turned red, "Hey, while we are at it, what is the Coyote stuff?" He's pretty good at changing a subject is my Thomas.

I thought about it for a minute trying to figure out how the explain Coyote to someone who didn't grow up with the stories. "Coyote is, well, he's sort of a practical joke player. A Trickster. He can be helpful or malicious, depending on his mood. He led the Diné, the People, up out of the flood into this world and then went back for fire so they would have warmth in their new world. He plays tricks on people just to watch them try to figure out what is happening. If you have a flat and can't point to a specific cause, someone will say Coyote is playing with you."

"Interesting, so anything that goes wrong or strange is the fault of Coyote?" By this time, Thomas, Iverson, Williams and I were staking out a parking area, a bedroll area and a spot way down the hill for the latrine.

"Not always. Sometimes it is Raven, or the Twins or Cannibal Woman or Archer, or any of a number of the minor and major deities, but if it is really weird, it is Coyote."

I could see a string of headlights coming up the long single lane road and headed down to do a little traffic direction. The leading elements of my team had arrived.

**Then**

The last of the convoy rumbled by the four hidden men and once it was out of sight, they slipped out from the concealing sand and bent low, raced back to the jeeps to take stock of their supplies.

Hitch pulled out all the explosives and laid them out on the sand to study. Finally, he nodded, "We can do it, Sarge. Set up a couple about 50 yards apart, with any kind of luck that'll nail at least two and more likely four or five trucks. Then a couple of miles down the road do it again, only put them even further apart. Keep them confused, ya know? With a bit of luck, we might be able to hit them three times and each time will eat away at the supplies and we might even get a tank or two if we work it right."

Sam studied the explosives arrayed on the sand, ran the plan in his head and nodded slowly, "Do it. If we can grab anything from some of the disabled trucks, we can add to the confusion with their own supplies." He looked over at Moffitt and grinned, "Better "brew up," this will probably take a couple of hours to get the explosive bundles ready and then we are going to be running around for the rest of the day."

"Right-o, Sam. I'll make some coffee while I'm at it and see if there is anything in the rations that we can eat on the run except those crackers and that hideous peanut butter stuff."

"Hey, Doc, not likin' peanut butter is un-American!"

"I rest my case, Tully."

Tully thought for a second and then grinned, "good one, Doc."

Hitch popped an extra large bubble and nodded with a wink to Moffitt.

The desert sun climbed high overhead as Hitch, with Tully to assist, made eleven bundles of explosives, wired them and laid them carefully in a duffle with a cut up blanket acting as wadding between the layers. Each bundle was carefully primed and needed only to have an electrical charge sent down the wire to detonate it.

"Sarge, I guess we're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Okay. Let's get ahead of that convoy." Hitch and Tully started their jeeps and Moffitt slid down from the dune where he had been doing sentry duty and climbed into the jeep beside Tully.

The two jeeps made wide turns in the sand and running low behind the dunes raced to get ahead of the convoy. More than once they had to stop and make sure they were not hauling up the rear of the convoy and once had to turn west for several miles before heading south again. The convoy seemed to be taking an almost hopscotch route. The convoy leader was afraid of mines or ambushes or had very specific map coordinates to hit before proceeding.

"You don't suppose this is one of Dietrich's little games?" Troy muttered to Moffitt as they observed the convoy from a dune and plotted a route to get ahead of it.

"Doesn't seem like his wicket, Sarge. He's rather a straightforward type." Moffitt thought for a long moment, "Of course, he does have his sneaky days. This could be one of them, but I haven't spotted him, have you?"

Troy shook his head, shrugged and slid down the dune to lead the way westward again before heading south.

Finally, the convoy was behind them, far enough behind them that they felt comfortable planting three of the bundles along what appeared to be the route the convoy would take. The wires were run along the sand and down into a wadi where Tully attached them to a pressure switch. The other three moved along the route of the wires, burying them in the sand and wiping out their tracks. Finally, all they could do was wait.

It was nearly a half hour later when the lead tank of the convoy lurched into view. Troy gave the start-up signal and Tully and Hitch maneuvered the jeeps into a "run" position. Troy waited on his perch atop the dune and waited as truck after truck lumbered by. Finally, when Sam had judged that about half the convoy had passed, he pushed down on the detonator switch and was gratified to watch two cargo trucks leave the ground and burst into balls of flame, each one took with it the truck behind and the truck ahead. The third bundle disabled a tank and Troy yanked the wires free and raced down the dune. He tossed the detonator into the back of the jeep and took a flying leap into his seat. "Shake it!"

The two jeeps were gone from sight before the first crates of ammunition began detonating in the fires and causing even more chaos.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Now**

_Things that go rumble in the…_

By the next morning my people were set up and operational. I was trying to decide if I needed to bring in the rest of the Team or operate on skeleton crew for right now. Iverson and I talked it over while Thomas ran Smith in small circles getting information for him. Once I heard an explosive sound that could only be a Senior Federal Bureau of Investigation Agent imploding over the real or fancied stupidity of officialdom. It is good to know that not just the military has its fair share of idiots. Just about the time Dan and I decided to hold the rest of the Team back at the base and work with what we had until we had a better idea of what we had and were working with (was that sufficiently confusing?) Thomas came steaming up and I'm not kidding, there was steam coming out of his ears. Really cute ears and really cute steam, but steam and ears, for real.

"I'm going to kill someone!"

Whoa, he was upset, "Oookay. Who and why?"

"The idiots that debriefed the flight crew! They didn't bother to pass along that the helicopter had just been hit by a sand storm that blew up out of nowhere when my agents disappeared. They didn't think it was important. I wonder how they will enjoy King Salmon Island?"

"Um, Thomas, I would have to check, but I don't think even the military has a radar station there any more."

His smile was all shark. You know, lots and lots of teeth, really sharp teeth, and no humor at all. "I know, why do you think I'm going to send them there?"

He stared into space for a couple of minutes and then reached over, pulled me to him by the front of my shirt and gave me a very Public Display of Affection. Man, can he kiss!

"Smith and I are going to head over to Page and debrief those, what did you call them? Airedales? Hell, Rachel, you know more about weird stuff than I do, so I'm not even going to make any suggestions. Do whatever you think needs to be done and I'll try to be back by nightfall." He was half way to the bright red jeep that Smith had rented before I could get all of my breath back.

"Wow!"

My head snapped around and I glared at Corny. She was not the least bit bothered; she grinned at me and then smiled at Thomas's departing figure. "Does he have a brother?"

"Yes, married, three children." I rolled my eyes at her when she mock pouted. Dan cracked up and decided that he better go see that the commo truck was up and running.

Corny slipped smoothly into official mode and handed me a stack of printouts. "Weather pictures for the last two weeks and really detailed ones of the past 72 hours. These look like cloud formations, but they are in actuality major sand storms. I mean, like really big and really bad. And NOAA says that they came out of nowhere, one minute they weren't there, the next they were, and then poof, gone again." She pointed to several sprawling radar blurs.

"Huh." Yeah, yeah, when I'm with the older members of the family, I tend to revert to certain language idiosyncrasies. "That's the spot that Uncle Old Tree and Old Man Logan said they saw the tank." I pointed to a blur covered plateau a few miles away. "Grab Watters (two t's, please, ma'am), find Williams and get all your portable gear into the hummer. Let's go take a look. Dan!" When he looked up, I pointed to the hummer and circled my hand over my head. He nodded and I headed up to the Hogan to tell Uncle and Grammy what was going on.

By the time I had passed along a few do's, don'ts, sounds good to me and maybe's to the rest of the team, Williams had the Hummer humming (sorry, I just can not resist!) and my mini team was waiting for me. I showed him on the map where I wanted to be, we looked at the topo map and figured a way to get there and heigh-ho, heigh-hent, off we went. Okay, my bad. Sorry. It took us a couple of hours to get across the arroyos, ditches, dry creeks and up to top of the plateau. Williams pulled to a stop and we all stared out across the flat dry land. Those flat buttes sticking up out of the flat land is one of the few things I know of for certain that will shut up anyone (hell, even Rosie couldn't find anything to snipe about) and make them just stop and stare at the majesty of nature.

We drank it in for a couple of minutes and then I bailed out and walked around to the front of the hummer and slapped my map case down on the hood. "Okay, hims and her, hes and she, boys and girl, lady and gentlemen, NCOs and Airmen, let's play CSI."

I knew I had said the wrong thing as soon as the words left my mouth.

"Miami?"

"New York?"

"Las Vegas?"

"No, let's play NCIS, and then I can be Abby." I always knew there was something a bit off about Corny.

"Okay, then I'll be DiNozzo and chase all the girls." Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) leered convincingly.

Williams muttered something under his breath, but Corny heard and pounced, "Why do you want to be McGee?"

He looked around, turned red and announced, "He writes books, he's smart and he gets the girls, he just doesn't talk about it."

Corny nodded, "Good reasons."

Williams gazed at her in adoration and I rolled my eyes and groaned. And another one bites the dust, and another one gone. Talk about fatal attraction, that girl had it in spades and what really toasted my posties was that she didn't even know it.

Dan rolled his eyes and stated, "Every story needs a "wise old man" so I'll be Ducky."

I grinned evilly and stated, "Then I guess that makes me Gibbs," as I flat slapped the back of Dan's head.

"Oh hell, I knew this was a mistake from the git-go," Dan moaned.

"Okay, have we all got it out of our systems? Can we now do some work? Corny, log on and hit NOAA for some radar shots of this spot. I want to read the numbers on the side of the hummer. Watters (two t's, please, ma'am), Williams, start a slow walk away from each other to the cliffs and look for anything that doesn't seem to fit the area. Tire marks, cigarette butts, tanks…" I waited for them to laugh and then hustled them off onto their search.

"Dan, help Corny, I also want news reports for the 4-state area that have anything out of the ordinary…including 5-legged lambs and frogs with two heads. I want it all."

I headed out away from the hummer and walked slowly, scanning the ground as I went. I think about a half hour passed before my head jerked up and I realized that a sand storm was suddenly brewing up about 500 yards ahead of me. It sounded almost human and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. Then I heard it, the creak and clatter of tank treads. I slitted my eyes to protect them from the sand that was starting to blow around me and then I saw it. DAMN! It was a Panzer, not an old one, a new one…okay, that didn't make sense. It was not a new 2007 tank, it was an old 1940s tank, but it was a new 1940s tank. Aw, crap, whatever. Now, one of the things I learned early in my career is that there are bold heroes and there are old heroes but there are no old, bold heroes. I know which I intend to be. I turned and headed back to the hummer as fast as my legs could carry me.

"VEHICLE RENDEZVOUS!" That came out in true Parade Ground voice and I could see the two young Airmen hustling across the hardpan to meet me there. Dan and Corny were already there, not having left its general vicinity and they were both staring with open mouths at the wall of red sand that was swirling its way across the butte.

"IN! BATTEN DOWN! DO NOT START THE ENGINE!" We all jammed our way into the dubious shelter of the hummer and metal flaps started slamming down and up and sideways and being locked in place. I double checked the overhead to make sure it was fastened and then the wind was on us. It was dark in the locked down hummer but not so dark that I could not see wide frightened eyes and pale faces.

The scream of the wind and the horrifying rumble of a tank that should not, could not, be there drowned out everything until it seemed that we had been dissolved and become one with the wind. The wind began rocking the hummer and there was a distinct thud as what could only be that impossible tank grazed my side of the hummer and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noises were gone and it was silent again.

I heard someone in the back let out a low, ragged breath and I think I joined them. My chest hurt so I was pretty sure I had been holding my breath.

"Everyone stay put." I slowly opened my door and eased out so that I was hidden behind the door. Don't ask me why I went into Combat Mode, I just did.

"Oh nuts!" I stared around with huge eyes and looked back into the depths of the hummer, "Dan, get out here."

He slid out and his eyes went just as round as mine had to be. "What the hell?"

"I don't think we are in Kansas anymore, Toto," was my brilliant and snappy reply, "or Arizona for that matter."

"Uh huh." Dan and I gazed around at an endless sea of sand. Not a butte or a plateau or a canyon or arroyo or Coyote in sight. Just the sand and more sand.

"Where the hell are we?"

"Damned if I know, Cap."

I heard a faint sound in the hummer and my brain finally snapped into gear. I had people to take care of. "Williams, you and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) get the 50 shipped, cleared, loaded and tested. Corny, break out the protective gear. Dan, issue weapons. I don't know where the hell we are, but I'm not going to take any chances."

**Then or is it Now?**

Moffitt watched through the glasses and held his breath. What he was seeing was impossible, but unless he had gone totally starkers, he was seeing the impossible. "Sam, I need you up here, all of you actually."

The other three men joined him on the top of the dune and hunkered down to provide no targets. So far they had managed to damage or destroy two tanks and eleven trucks and they were feeling pretty full of themselves.

"What is it?"

Moffitt simply pointed to the northwest. "It wasn't there when the storm started and then when it was over, there it is; only I'm not sure what it is."

Troy settled in and gazed through his binoculars. When his mouth fell open, he didn't even notice. "What the…?"

"Damn, if I know, old man."

Hitch and Tully borrowed the glasses and spent some serious gazing time before Tully rolled toward Sam and said, "There's a couple of women down there! One itty bitty and the other taller than…well, even Moffitt, I think. Dames!"

"And I don't see a Red Cross anywhere?" Hitch was almost plaintive. "What are women doing in what look like really weird uniforms out in the middle of the desert?"

Moffitt reached over and retrieved his binoculars from Hitch. "Indeed, and is that not a 50 cal that they are mounting on that odd looking vehicle. Oh my." Moffitt went silent and the other three stared down the sand.

Tully still had the glasses and he was managing to keep them away from Troy until Sam smacked him up the back of the head and took them away.

"What's going on?" Hitch whispered to Tully.

Tully turned his head and grinned, "Those women, hell, they took their shirts off."

Hitch's eyes went as large as saucers until he realized that Tully was grinning at him. "No, they didn't."

"Yeah, they did, but they had other shirts under the ones they took off and then put on these really odd looking vests before they put the shirts back on."

Troy grunted, "The guys are doing the same thing. Weird color uniforms. All sand colored and spotted."

"Camouflage?" Moffitt asked.

Troy rolled to look at Moffitt and thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, could be, but I've never seen any like that." He rolled back to his stomach and stared down the dunes again. "Arming up. Switching soft hats for hard. What are those rifles? Odd magazine design, curved forward. Almost no stock, no, wait. Hey, like tankers guns. Telescopic stocks. No side arms that I can see. The tall skinny one is looking for a high spot. Ah, there she goes."

"Where?" Tully and Hitch breathed in tandem.

Moffitt grinned, "Looks like she is doing the same thing we are, finding a nice dune and hunkering down to have a look around. Sam, we don't have any female combat troops. Do you?"

"No, not unless they've started recruiting women and didn't bother to tell the rest of the world, but those gals are armed and look like they know what they are doing."

Tully was fascinated by the strange squat vehicle sitting below them in the sand. "It's almost a tank, but not quite, almost a jeep but bigger, not a truck or an Armored Personnel Carrier. Not a half track. What is it?"

Troy grinned at him, hearing that "I want it" tone in Tully's voice. "Well, why don't you just slide on down there and see if they'll let you take a look."

"Yeah, sure." The disgust was palpable in Tully's voice.

"I say, that is not a bad idea, actually."

"What!? Are you out of your mind?" Troy blinked at Moffitt and wondered if they had all lost their minds.

"Well, there is a Negro down there, and he is wearing what appear to be a large number of stripes, a very large number of stripes, which makes me doubt that they are Germans. They are odd stripes, the like of which I have never seen, but they are stripes. I think the very tall woman is a Captain. There appear to be patches on her collar that are a pair of straight lines, bars, if you will. They are an odd shade of brown, but they are bars. Now, if you can convince me that Herr Hitler has turned over a new leaf and has left his prejudices behind, I'll believe they are Germans. I wonder…" He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out one of those impossible quarters, stared down at it and then looked down the long sand dunes to the strangers below. "You don't suppose…?"

"No, hell, no! Don't even think that sort of thing. Those are NOT people from some other time and place. They can't be." Sam's voice trailed off as he studied all the facts that were coming at him faster than machine gun bullets. His mind was just not ready to process all the strangeness at once. "Hell, what have we gotten ourselves into?!"

"No idea, old chap, no idea, but I think it might be just a bit interesting."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Somewhen**

_Culture Clash…_

Troy kept trying to watch everything at once and he was having a hell of a job. The two young men had mounted the familiar 50 on the top of whatever that strange vehicle down there was and gone through what appeared to be some sort of checklist. They had done everything except actually fire live ammo and it was his opinion that they had done the job correctly.

The itty bitty female had headed up the hill toward where the other one was. Moffitt said she had stripes on her sleeves but he couldn't tell what kind and Moffitt had the eyes of an eagle. If he said there were stripes on that gal's arm, then there were stripes there. But what the hell was a broad doing in uniform, wearing stripes, carrying a weapon and in the middle of the African desert.

None of it made any sense. If the women were nursing staff, then they should have red crosses on their sleeves and they should not have weapons. Rommel was a German, but he was a gentleman and he'd gut any man who messed with the Red Cross women. Moffitt said that one of his Arab contacts had told him a damn gory story about some German Lieutenant who had lost his mind and tried to rape a captured allied nurse. His own men pulled him off her, beat the snot out of him, tied him up and turned what was left of him over to Rommel's headquarters where he was immediately court-martialed and summarily shot. According to Rommel, there was no defense for the mistreatment of women, prisoners or children.

But damn it, those women were courting a bullet by carrying weapons. Germans might not take the time to recognize that they were women and sorry didn't take back a bullet.

A touch on his arm had him looking around to where Hitch was holding out a canteen. "Better water up, Sarge, we've been here a couple of hours already and that sun is a killer."

Troy took several deep drinks of the warm, stale water and handed the canteen back. "Thanks. Here, take over for me. I'm going to go find a jeep tire."

Hitch grinned at him, took the binoculars and began studying the scene below. "Hey, where'd the gals go?"

Moffitt grinned, "Now why did I know that would be your first question? They are both about ten o'clock. Top of the dune, about a mile out. I keep getting a peek of the little blonde one. I don't think she is quite as experienced as the other one. The Captain stays well hidden. It's like she knows the desert and how to use it."

Tully lifted his head from his "pillow" snorted and closed his eyes again. "You guys wanna keep it down? If we ain't gonna do nothing but hang around, I'm trying to get some rest here."

"So sorry to disturb your beauty sleep. Back to dreamland, young Lothario."

Tully shifted the match stick to the other side of his mouth and made a mental note to write down "Lothario" and look it up. Moffitt came up with the damnedest stuff, but most of it was pretty interesting, maybe there was something to all that book readin'.

Troy stuffed himself back into his trousers, slid the zipper up and sighed with relief. He started to reach for the Thompson on the seat of the jeep when the hair on his neck stood up and he knew he wasn't alone.

"Feel better?" The voice was low, husky and sounded like black silk sliding over pale skin.

Troy felt the blood rush to his face. Not only had he been caught with his pants "down" so to speak, he'd been caught with his zipper down. He damned his inattention and turned very slowly, keeping his hands well away from the .45 on his belt.

It was the tall one; the one Moffitt said was a Captain. Damn, she was tall, taller than Moffitt and if he wasn't mistaken, taller even than Dietrich. His lips quirked in an unconscious smile. That would mess with the Hauptman's mind if he ever laid eyes on her. He looked at the collar and the odd helmet, yup; those were the railroad tracks of a Captain. But they looked like they were painted on, or maybe embroidered. He ran a quick glance over her uniform and realized that he didn't see any metal that would reflect light. Even that odd, short rifle in her hands was all black with no chrome. Her helmet was covered with cloth, her boots were clay colored and the only metal he saw was the edge of a watch face peeking out from skin tight leather gloves. Good desert discipline, but who the hell was she? He spotted what looked like more embroidery. Donovan, her name, maybe?

U S Air Force? What the hell was Air Force? He brother David was in the Army Air Corps, but he'd never heard of Air Force.

"Sergeant Sam Troy, ma'am. United States Army, Long Range Desert Group, Rat Patrol."

"LRDG?" She shook her head in what seemed like confusion. "Non vi, sed arte. Not by strength, by guile. Good group of commandos, mostly British and Expeditionary forces. Kept the Germans running in circles. Nice try but they were disbanded in 1945."

Troy's mouth dropped open and several attempts to close it failed. He stood and stared at her in dumbfounded shock until she shook her head, laughed faintly and reached over with her left hand and lifted his chin. "You'll catch flies."

"What the hell do you mean disbanded? 1945?! What kind of damn games are you playing? Woman or no woman, you are not going to play word games and get me spilling my guts!"

"Okay, then what year is it?" There was no inflection in her voice, it was flat but he detected a faint worry waaaaay in the back.

"Uh, 1942, the last time I checked."

"Try 2007, Shorty."

Shorty?! Just because she was taller than any man in the world was no reason for her to insult him. And he was just angry enough, confused enough and had had enough over the last 24 hours that his temper started to slide off the rails. His eyes narrowed and he gauged the distance between them.

"I wouldn't, if I were you. You would hurt a lot worse than I would when it was all over." She turned her chin toward her shoulder and he noticed an odd black box attached to her shoulder. Her chin touched it and she spoke into it. "Get out of the sun, Corny. Dan, come on down and join the party."

Troy heard two distinct "clicks" and then she turned those ice cold green eyes at him again and smiled. It was not a smile he enjoyed. "Why don't you have your friends on the top of the dune join us? I'm sure they are tired of the sun."

Troy gritted his teeth and turned toward the rest of his men. Red ran up the back of his neck again when he realized that they were all watching very carefully what he and that, that long drink of Captain were doing.

Hell, they'd probably seen and heard from the beginning. Shit. Then he saw the Negro coming around the dune and backing up the Captain. He had one of those funny short rifles with the odd magazines. His hands itched to try one. They had been snookered by these, whoever and whatever they were.

While the Rat Patrol had been busy watching the activity below, these two had worked their way around and taken them from the rear. Damn, come to think of it, he didn't remember seeing the Negro disappear from the activity below. He was getting old. He sighed and motioned the guys to join them at the jeeps.

Moffitt was the first one down the hill and Troy could almost see him spruce up as he slid down the dune. "Moffitt, Jack, Sergeant, Long Range Desert Group, Rat Patrol, late of the Royal Scots Greys, at your service, ma'am."

"Very pretty, but like I told Shorty here, the LRDG was disbanded in 1945."

Moffitt's eyes widened, but his mouth managed not to hit the sand. He whispered, "My God, Doctor Einstein was right!"

Hitch blinked at the idea of anyone calling Troy "Shorty". Okay, so he wasn't six feet, but he was only an inch short and that made him pretty tall. Then he realized what he had heard the woman say and sat down on the sand, hard. "Disbanded? 1945?"

Tully shifted the match stick a couple of times and clenched his teeth hard enough to bite the end off it. He spit the remains into the sand and studied the two weapons that were aimed at them. He didn't see any shaking hands or nervous tics. Those two had used those things before and knew what they were doing with them. He decided that he would join Hitch on the sand. No sense standing in the hot sun.

Suddenly that little black box on the strange Captain's shoulder clicked and she triggered it with her chin just like last time. "Speak."

Short, to the point. Sam glanced at Jack and they shared a long, oh shit, we are in a lot of trouble these are professionals, look.

"I've got movement, sound and dust from the north. Cap, I'd swear they were German tanks." It was a female voice. Moffitt decided at that point that he was a royal screw up. The itty bitty female had not been inexperienced in the desert; she had been deliberately showing herself to hold their attention. Well, done, young woman, whoever you are, well done, Jack thought.

"Get down to the hummer and get everyone over here, stat." A click answered her and she turned back to the four men in front of her. "Okay, here is how the cow ate the cabbage, as Corny would say. Somehow, you four are from 1942 World War II era. We five are from about 65 years in your future. No major war, just three or four minor ones scattered over the globe. You guys didn't finish the job. My SSgt. says she has unfriendlies to the north, which tells me that they are probably also your unfriendlies as well."

Troy thought about that for a long moment, that woman talked stranger than anyone he had ever heard, but if you thought about her words for a bit, they made sense. He looked over at Moffitt.

Moffitt thought about it for a moment, and then nodded, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend? Truce till we figure out what is going on?"

Sam grunted and agreed, "Truce for now."

The woman relaxed fractionally. "Donovan, Rachel Y., Captain, United States Air Force." She gestured over her shoulder, "Iverson, Daniel, No Middle Initial, Senior Master Sergeant, United States Air Force."

Troy frowned and looked at the others; they all shrugged their lack of knowledge. "What is the Air Force and what the hell is a Senior Master Sergeant? Master Sergeant is as high as the enlisted ranks go."

"Later, when we have a bit of leisure. You are?"

"Troy, Sam, Sergeant, United States Army. Moffitt, Jack, Sergeant, Scots Greys. Privates Hitchcock and Pettigrew, United States Army." He stared at the woman and that cocky smirk of his burst out and his smart mouth dumped him in the crapper, again.

"I guess as the only officer in 50 miles, that puts you in charge, Donovan, Rachel Y., Captain."

The Negro enlisted man winced and waited for the explosion.

Donovan lowered her rifle, gave the cocky Army Sergeant in the Aussie Bush Hat what Iverson called the thousand yard stare and gestured to him, "Step into my office, Sergeant." She turned on her heel and headed over the top of the nearest dune.

Troy shrugged and followed her.

"Gently, Captain, gently." The Negro Sergeant shook his head and waited for the hue and cry that he knew was about to erupt. He wondered if the First Aid kit was handy.

Donovan turned sharply, causing Troy to skid to a stop to keep from running into her rear, not that he had any objections to that rear end, and stare upwards at her. Damn, but she was tall.

"Sergeant, do I look like I have stupid written all over my face?"

There was a long pause as Troy processed that bit of strangeness and then realized he was in trouble. "Uh, no, ma'am."

Iverson nodded and grinned at the three men standing with him. "Oh, good answer, young man. Uh, Cap? Voices carry in the desert."

"Fine. Then, everyone, listen and learn. I won't have to say it more than once. If you act like a Missouri Mule, I'm going to treat you like one and that starts out with a two by four between your ears to get your attention!"

Troy closed his eyes in resignation. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. I let my mouth overload my brain."

"Yes, you did. Now, this is not _my_ desert and this is not _my_ war. Yes, I have fought in more than one battle in a desert but it was in Iraq not Tunisia and it is sixty plus years in the future. I don't know _this_ desert and _this_ war, you do. Now get over that dune and get this show on the road!"

Troy studied her for a long moment, waiting for some snide little dig or "but" and when nothing else hit him, he nodded, grinned and stated, "Sorry, again, Ma'am. You're okay, Cap. You'll do, you'll do."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." She snorted and stalked back to the others, but he could tell he had said the right thing. Thank God, he had finally gotten something right.

He followed her back and had his men clearing camp and saddling up when that weird vehicle pulled around the dune and had Tully drooling all over himself.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

**Somewhen**

_Proofs…_

A young man brought that strange vehicle to a sand spraying stop in front of his Captain and glared around at the strangers. He finally decided that she had things were well in hand and killed the engine.

The itty bitty blonde all but fell out of the whatever it was and was in front of her Captain with several sheets of paper. "No internet, ma'am. No satellite connections, no cell phone towers. We're in the dark ages." There was the faintest hint of fear in the voice. "That convoy or whatever it is, is about, wait let me see." She held her binoculars to her eyes and fiddled with a couple of small knobs. "18.4 miles out. The only reason I heard it was because the wind is coming from that direction." She looked around at the four strangers, had turned almost back to the Captain when her head whipped around so fast that she almost fell. She fastened her eyes on Tully and just stared. Finally, she walked slowly over to him, around him and reached out to gently touch his arm.

"Hey, I ain't never seen this squirt before." Tully protested. The young woman's eyes went wider, her eyes rolled back in her head and she stretched her very short self face down on the sand in a complete faint.

"What the hell?" Donovan was on one knee beside the young woman before anyone else really had time to react. "Corny, come on, girl, rise and shine." She gently turned her over, slapped the pale cheeks and looked up at the young private who took in her killing expression, raised his hands and backed off. "I ain't never seen her, didn't touch her, don't know her. It ain't my fault." He gave Troy a pleading look and back off even further.

The young woman suddenly sat straight up, turned a fiery red and gulped, "Oh, God. I am so embarrassed. Captain, I'm so sorry."

Donovan stood up, reached down and pulled the itty bitty blonde to her feet. "Want to tell me what happened?"

Hell, thought Troy, we all want to know what happened.

"It's, it's….it's not possible, ma'am." She kept staring at Tully who had backed as far away as possible without actually being out of the camp. She reached into a pocket, damn but those uniforms had pockets, Moffitt thought, and pulled out a flat black wallet. She handed it to the Captain and said, "The second flip, ma'am. My grandparents."

The Captain looked carefully at the picture, looked at Tully and handed the wallet across to Troy.

Troy looked down at the picture, swallowed hard and passed it to Moffitt. Moffitt took a long look and muttered, "Bloody hell."

"WHAT?! Why is everyone staring at me? What the hell did I do?" Tully was all but dancing in frustration.

"Easy, Tully. I don't think it is something you have done, perhaps, not yet." Moffitt suddenly grinned. "Let me guess, young woman, is your grandmother's name Carol Sue."

"Yes, sir. Carol Sue Hillyer Pettigrew. I'm named for her, Caroline Sue…Cornelius, and it's SSgt. Cornelius, sir."

"Oh, please, don't call me sir. It makes me wonder where my father is." Moffitt could be charming, and very gentle with frightened young women. "Tully, I think you should come and make the acquaintance of your grand-daughter, Caroline Sue Cornelius."

"HUH?! I ain't even got a wife much less a kid and I sure ain't old enough to have a grand kid and besides, I think she's older than I am, so how can I be HER grand-father?" Tully was not about to go into that strange unknown without a fight and he was not about to admit to kids that he had not even thought about, much less another generation on top of that. Nosirree, not him, uh huh.

Donovan started to take a step toward the young man, but Troy held up a hand and stopped her. "My man, my problem." He took the wallet from Moffitt and walked over to Tully. With part of the picture obscured, he showed it to Tully, "Ever seen that pretty girl before?"

Tully looked, looked again and studied the photo for a long moment and slowly nodded, "Yeah, that there's Carol Sue." He looked over at Hitch, "I was tellin' you about her scholarship thing, remember?"

Totally lost, Hitch nodded, "Yeah, you said she was in Arkansas, somewhere."

"Tully, take a good look at her. Doesn't that look like a wedding dress?" Troy pulled Tully's attention back to the picture.

"Oh, hey, yeah. Well, damn. I always thought maybe…never mind." There was a forlorn sound to his words.

Troy moved his thumb and held the picture even closer to Tully. "Look who she is standing next to, all dressed up in a suit and tie."

Tully looked, stared and it was his turn to turn pale but he managed to only stagger a bit, not fall. "But we didn't, we ain't, not yet, anyway."

Somehow his disjointed words needed no explanation. There were a couple of smiles, a still lost look or two but no one seemed ready to run screaming into the desert.

The little blonde continued to stare at Tully. In his turn, he stared back. "That there squirt is my grand-kid?! Can't be!"

"That's what you called me when I was little, Squirt. That's what shook me so bad." She walked close and stared up at him. He finally reached out and touched her face with a hand that trembled visibly.

"When she was "little"?" Troy asked Donovan.

"Huh. You know what she means."

"Yes, I believe we all know what she means, Captain, but I do suggest that we remove ourselves from the obvious path of a column of Afrika Korps tanks." Moffitt's voice was the cool breeze of reason and Troy and Donovan both nodded.

"Hey, sound, travel, wind. Who's your artillery honcho?" With a few hand motions, Donovan and that Negro Sergeant had those young fellows clearing some stuff off the, whatever, it was.

Troy and Moffitt looked at each other and then at the same time, in chorus, looked back at the Captain, "Honcho?"

"Oh, God. A language barrier. Honcho….uh, boss person, know-it-all, expert?"

Moffitt thought for a moment, translated the question and turned to Hitch. "That would be Private Hitchcock, ma'am."

Hitch's eyes went round and he popped a bubble before gritting his teeth and walking into range of that man-eating Captain. "Just Hitch, ma'am."

"Hitch. Try Cap, or Captain. I answer equally to both. Ma'am makes me wonder if my mother is standing behind me with a switch. Of course, Iverson," she glared at the Negro, who grinned and did his best to look innocent; he failed miserably, "calls me that, just to twist my tail."

Hitch worked that comment over in his mind and decided that he didn't think that twisting that woman's tail was a real good idea. "Ah, yes, ma'….uh Captain."

"Okay, we have the 50 mounted, but all we have done is a dry fire. With the column about 18 miles out, the wind coming toward us, the sound envelope produced by the tanks and the dunes between us, what are the chances that three, three shot bursts will be heard by them?" She waited calmly for an answer.

Hitch thought it over for a moment, "May I?" He reached for the glasses that the little blonde had dropped on the sand. The Captain nodded, he collected them and while the rest finished up getting set to bug out, he climbed a dune and took a long look in all directions. He slide back down, handed the glasses to the woman and cast greedy eyes on them. "Never seen binoculars like them before. Show's the distance to places, right there in the glasses even after you stop looking at the place. Sure do envy you those. Go for it, ma'….Captain. Chances of the Germans hearing us are about nil and I didn't see any Arabs around. Hey, how did you know we were here?" The question had been bugging all of them and four sets of ears perked up.

"Glass reflection. Probably off a jeep wind screen. Might want to check the canvas over them."

Hitch looked and sure enough, the canvas had pulled loose on one of the jeeps and more than half of the glass was exposed to the sun. Up close it wasn't anything to even think about, but at a distance, with the sun hitting it just right, it was a beacon that screamed, oh, here I am, shoot me now. While he snorted in disgust at their carelessness, the woman walked back to the whatever it was and held a short conversation with the driver. "Three bursts, three shots each, left, middle, right. Don't walk it. Go."

She walked away, held a short conversation with her Negro NCO and then walked over to Troy and Moffitt. That was fine with Hitch, between the two of them; they could probably handle her if she got strange. Well, any stranger than things already were. There was just too much weirdness going on and Hitch couldn't make any sense of any of it. There was too much stuff happening that didn't have any answers and no body seemed to think it was really strange, except maybe him. Hitch chewed hard on his bubble gum and tightened down the canvas on the glass. He was going to keep a really close eye on those strangers.

Troy held up a hand, "Hold it. Before we do anything else, what the hell is that thing?" He pointed at the strange vehicle. "My mental conversations are getting a bit taxing trying to figure out what to call it."

The Captain looked at the vehicle a bit blankly and then grinned, "Of course, you've never seen one, have you. Duh, my bad. Okay, teacher mode, that charming little fancy is a High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle, also known as a HMMWV or HumVee or a Hummer. I personally prefer hummer. It is easier to say. Most civilians think it refers to their street models, but it is a universal term. It is diesel, which I think is going to be a problem out here, right?"

Troy and Moffitt looked at each other and shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not." Responded Troy. "We steal a lot of stuff. Can probably get some diesel once in a while. But what is a "street model?" I've never heard that before."

"The car manufacturers make civilian versions of war vehicles and civilians think they are really….ahhhh….the cat's pajamas?"

Moffitt laughed, "Now that term I know. You mean people drive those ugly things around on the streets?"

"And jeeps, and the VW Thing, uh I think that was originally a Kubelwagon, and they are classics. People are just weird, let's face it."

Troy nodded agreement, "Yeah, weird I can go along with. Okay, let's see about getting this show on the road. The cave?" He looked at Moffitt who nodded agreement.

"Okay, we are going to head east and try to hit the coast without picking up too many stray shots. Tuck your, ahh…hummer, in between the jeeps and keep a close eye on me. We do a lot of stop and go driving. You can't just drive over the top of a line of dune and assume there is nothing on the other side." He stopped when he saw the slightly disgusted expression on both the Captain and the NCO. "Never mind, you already know that, don't you? Anyway, if we run into a problem, stay tight until I give the signal and then break hard and fast. Shoot like hell and keep going east. Watch what you shoot at and who you shoot at. Any questions?"

The Captain shook her head, looked around and gestured for her people to mount up. "Dan, you drive. Sorry, Williams, he has the experience, you don't. I'm on the 50. Set me a couple of cans of ammo handy and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) be ready to help reload or clear if needed. Everyone make sure you have your weapon clear, locked, loaded and extra ammo handy. Choose a keyhole, and stick close to it. Okay, people, let's rock and roll."

Rock and roll? What the hell was that? Troy shook his head, climbed into the jeep, looked around and slapped Hitch on the shoulder, "Let's shake it."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11, Somewhen

**Chapter 11**

**Somewhen**

_As clear as mud…_

The forty mile, as the crow flew, trip to Agarawa (1) took the better part of the day. Troy avoided anything that even looked like it might cause a fight. Not that he didn't enjoy a good tussle; he just didn't know these new people. He didn't know their skills, their training, and their willingness to fight. He wasn't going to go looking for a fight with untrained people on board.

He thought about that for a moment, and then decided that the Captain and that Negro NCO were probably pretty well trained, but the two young kids…hell, they were about the same age as Hitch and Tully, but there was an unfinished look to them. Like maybe the worst thing they'd ever run up against was a chewing out from some Sergeant. As for the itty bitty blonde, he wasn't about to stick her in the middle of a fight and depend on her to guard his back. Not yet anyway. She was just a baby. Maybe after they had gotten a bit more comfortable with each other.

He had the feeling that the old man and the Captain would blow the hell out of anything that got in their way, but they were only two people and he saw the way the Captain reacted when the girl hit the sand. Fast and concerned. He'd seen officers like her before, well, he'd seen male officers that she seemed like. Those were her people and nobody was going to get between her and keeping them safe and getting them back home, wherever or whenever home was. He'd never met a woman with that kind of responsibility before. Hell, he'd never met a woman who understood that kind of responsibility before. (2)

She seemed like she knew what she was doing, but appearances could be deceiving. He snorted and grinned, hell, they spent half their time hoping that their appearance would fool the Germans. Most of the time it did, but when it didn't, they had to fight and run like hell. She'd stand, the old man would stand, but would the kids? He closed his eyes and shook his head. It was like Tully said, that itty bitty blonde was older than Tully and she was his grand-daughter…maybe. There were too many unanswered questions yet. Hell, he figured that maybe he didn't know enough to know the questions he needed to ask. What was that his grandfather used to say, oh yeah, you don't know that you don't know what you don't know? He'd wait and see.

The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon behind them and cast long unearthly shadows that preceded them to the east. Finally, Agarawa rose up out of the desert grim, gloomy, depressing and totally out of place. That huge chunk of rock rising up out of the desert still hit him in the gut just like the first time he had seen it. He still got the feeling that it was a figment of his imagination.

Hitch swung the jeep into a wide sweep and slowed to a bare crawl. Troy hit the sand and in a stooped run headed for the top of the nearest line of dunes. He didn't even have to look to know that Moffitt was doing the same thing on his side of the approach. He heard that hummer thing slow its engine and turn so it was following Hitch. Then he heard foot falls and glanced behind him. That tall Captain was right behind him, holding one of those baby rifles. She knew how to run in a crouch, but he'd bet his next month's pay that it took a lot of work to get all those long bones folded up like that.

He gestured with his left hand and she headed left while he took the right. He hit the top of the dunes and did his best to become a part of them. A fast look around showed no one in the immediate vicinity. He looked to his left for the Captain and it took him nearly a full minute to find her. He had to get a uniform like that! She just flat disappeared into the sand. Thinking about it, he decided that the only reason he found her was that braid of hers was starting to come loose and a bit of that black red hair blew in the wind like a tiny flag. He'd have to remember to mention that to her.

After a second long slow look around, he finally put the binoculars up to his eyes and did a full search of the area. They had nearly driven right into an ambush near here once, simply because a half-track was sitting down in a wadi while the Germans had lunch. It was close but they managed to finish off the Kraut patrol and Tully and Hitch took that half-track and the bodies a good hour away before dumping it and setting it on fire. The area was clear and he stood up slowly and headed down the dunes toward that weird rock formation.

"Odd place for a rock like that." The Captain had slid into position on his left and was frowning at the formation that ran for nearly two miles north to south. "We have some odd rock formations in the Four Corners but bunches of them, not just one sticking up out of nowhere."

"Four Corners?"

She kind of half-grinned, "Why do I feel like I should have gotten a teaching degree? Pay attention now, class."

Troy chuckled and shook his head, "I'm guessing there have been some major changes in sixty five years?"

"More than you can possibly imagine, but back to Four Corners. It is the point where Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona all meet. It is like someone sat down with the map and drew a perfect set of ninety degree angles. It's been called Four Corners for years, but it was mostly a local thing. Then after the end of the World War II, the nation went mobile and a lot of local color wound up as part of the language."

"Mobile? When did the war end?" He wondered if she would give him an answer or avoid that one. He had thought about it himself and wondered if knowing what the future held in store was such a good idea.

She pursed her lips and thought for a couple of minutes before responding. "The war ended, oh, a few years from now. I don't think I should say a whole lot more than that."

He nodded his acceptance of her reasoning, hell, it matched his own. "Mobile?"

"Mobile as in people started just packing up and moving around the country. The days of living your entire life on one street in one little town, those are gone. I guess all you guys came home and had trouble settling down. Before long people were just pulling up stakes and moving down the line to see what was there."

"How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm after they've seen Paree?"

She grinned, "That's just about right. Good grief!" She stopped dead and stared.

Hitch and Tully had gotten the big counterbalanced sheet of metal open and the cavern entrance yawned like a hungry mouth on the side of the rock. Troy stopped and watched her watch the scene. Her eyes widened and then narrowed as he saw her start to put things together and run scenarios in her mind. By the time they had gotten started up and moving again, the hummer was in the cave, Tully and Hitch had fastened the wide rakes to the jeeps and were headed back out to erase their trail and keep the Germans from finding their little home away from home.

The Captain stopped and studied the huge sheet of metal that was covered with glued on sand, pebbles and small rocks. "Ingenious."

"Yeah, and it works too." Troy said with a grin, pulled his hat off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

She dropped her head forward and let that odd shaped helmet roll off her head, catching it in her left hand. "It's a lot cooler in here."

"Yeah, about twenty degrees. Gets pretty cold at night, but blankets and cots help and we can have a fire in here." Hell, they were making small talk, just like they were at some party.

That Senior what-ever-he-was already had the two young men setting the hummer thing into camp mode. He nodded with approval as the 50 was pointed at the ceiling and lashed into place. All it took was one mistake. He heard metal clash and watched all those little porthole things drop down or get slammed up or slid to the side and locked out of the way.

Donovan laid her helmet on the ground and propped her rifle against the wall of the cave. She started unbraiding her hair while she watched the activity with a close eye.

"Oh, hey, Cap, meant to tell you. Those uniforms are pretty good, but I was able to spot you because your braid was coming down. Just thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks, I kind of figured it would start pretty soon. I usually try to rebraid it a couple of times a day. Keeps all the hair tucked in." She ran her fingers through the mop, massaged her head for a moment and then started rebraiding the whole mess. Damn but that was a lot of hair, Troy thought to himself. Odd color, too. Almost black, but with those odd red glints, kind of like that old mahogany sideboard his grandmother had.

"Where the hell did you get that color hair? I've never seen anything like it." Troy didn't even realize he had blurted that out until he heard Moffitt snicker.

Donovan looked slowly over at him and he decided that he had just dug his own grave when suddenly she grinned at him. "Blame my dad, he's Irish and my mom, she's half Navajo."

"Oh, so you're Red Indian descent. It does explain those high cheek bones." Moffitt sounded quite Professorial. (_Before anyone gets their "stuff" in an uproar, the term Native American is VERY new in the lexicon and the term "Red Indian" differentiated the American Indian from the native of the sub-Continent, India, and was and still is in common usage, especially in Europe_.)

She blinked at the terminology and then nodded, "Yeah, only in my day we use the term Native American. Same thing, just different words. Politically correct…oh GOD! Don't get me started on that subject! Just accept that certain terms to refer to certain people or places or things are considered to be "bad" by the powers that be and let it go at that."

She walked toward her group of people muttering under her breath and had Moffitt and Troy looking at each other in total confusion. "Did I say something wrong?" Sam asked Jack.

"I'm not sure, but I think that she is somewhat disgusted by people insisting that something must have a specific label."

"Sounds like she's been in the military too long." Troy grinned and then wondered just how long she had been in the Air Force or whatever it was. Suddenly his nose twitched and he stopped stock still and took a deep breath. "Coffee! Real coffee! Not the powdered stuff."

Moffitt inhaled deeply, "I do prefer tea, but that smells a bit like heaven."

Just about the time the two of them were going to go in search of that enticing aroma the jeeps roared down the ramp and Hitch and Tully parked them out of the way and headed back to seal the cave entrance. Troy trotted back to help them set that sheet of metal and Moffitt lit a couple of lanterns so they would not be in Stygian depths when the sunlight was cut off. As the darkness descended, he noted a couple of other lights going on. Lights that were brilliant blue white in hue rather than the murky yellow of the lanterns.

About the time Jack decided he wanted a better look at those lanterns, the itty bitty blonde showed up with a handful of mugs, hot mugs, mugs with real coffee in them. "I don't know who wants what with their coffee so I brought some of everything." She sat the mugs down on the packing crate they used as a table and started digging in that multitude of pockets, producing little packets and a couple of spoons. "Sugar, creamer, artificial sweetener, spoons. There's plenty, just yell if you want more." She tossed her supposed grandfather a sassy grin and headed back to continue the camp set up with the rest of the other team.

Hitch grinned, "Cute as a button, isn't she?"

"Hey, you just watch it, Hitchcock." Tully's tone was not a joking one and Hitch raised his hands in surrender.

"Coffee works better than a cute face anyway." He grabbed a mug, hefted it, tapped it and then took a long drink of the black coffee." Don't know what these mugs are made out of, but they don't weigh anything and they have a funny sound when you tap them. Coffee is good though."

Troy grunted his agreement and the four men watched their visitors from another time and place settle in.

Moffitt frowned slightly as he watched the frenetic activity and then recognized it for what it was, an attempt to stay too busy to think about what had happened and what might happen. He wondered how he would react if he had been snatched out of his time and dumped someplace else.

(1) Yes, yes, I borrowed this wonderful hideout from David King and _The Trojan Tank Affair._

(2) This bit of blatant chauvinism will be addressed at a later point in the story.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

**Somewhen**

_Just another tourist trap…_

In a large wadi, less than 20 miles from Agarawa, a small column of German tanks sat covered with camouflage netting. The low hanging sun cast long shadows and presaged to coming coolness of the dark desert night. Hauptman Hans Dietrich stood by quietly, his hands clasped behind his back, watching his men set up for night camp. His tent was going up across the way and several small fires were being carefully shielded so that the only direction they could be viewed from was directly above. He strolled around the camp checking the guard points, looking for escaping light, making sure his men were settling down for the night.

When he finished, he walked briskly to his tent, closed the flap and drew a deep shuddering breath. He opened a wooden footlocker, dug through some clothing and removed a carefully hoarded bottle of cognac. He didn't even bother with a glass; he simply drank deeply from the bottle. He recorked the bottle, replaced it and looked down at his hands. There was only a faint tremor and it was fading.

He took a deep breath and sat down at his field desk to do the daily reports. He stared down at the forms and leaned back in the uncomfortable folding chair. How the hell was he supposed to report the events of this morning? Or last week for that matter.

Dietrich frowned and tried to replay the events in his mind. He was a man who led the way, he did not command from the rear. Despite being told that he was going to lose his life that way, the only thing he had lost was perhaps his sanity. Twice now on scouting runs, he and his tank crew had found themselves somewhere. Somewhere they were not supposed to be. Somewhere they could not possibly be. He was pretty certain that he was the only one who had realized the situation because the crew was, as usual, so busy running the tank that they seldom took time to sightsee. He was in the hatch watching the surrounding countryside. Not that there was much to see, just miles and miles of sand, deep wadis and clumps of sere brown brush. Both times, hideously ferocious sand storms had blown up out of nowhere and when he had cleared the sand from his eyes and binoculars, they had been…where had they been?

Those incredible towers of stone rising out of the land and thrusting upward to the sky, he had seen those before…in a cinema. _Stagecoach_ that was the name of the film, with John Wayne. It was one of the last of the excellent American films to be shown in Germany. 1939, that was when the world began turning its back on Hitler and his henchmen and when things stopped coming to Germany from other parts of the world. He had read an article about where that movie had been filmed. A place called Monument Valley, an immense area that was in two or was it three states in the American West? He couldn't remember, but that majestic scenery had stayed with him and left him with the urge to visit that place someday. It called to something deep within him, something atavistic to the warrior in him.

If he was right, he had visited it twice now and he had not liked the visits one little bit. The first time, nearly a week ago, he had looked up and there were those huge pillars and two old men stood together nearby. They were gray and wrinkled and one had his hair in braids, the other in a bun at the base of his neck. They had not run, they had simply stood there and stared at him and his tank. He had stared back, too shocked to react and, he was ashamed to admit, he was glad when the sand came back and things were normal again.

Today was the same, but very different. That screaming wind had come again and when the sand had shifted enough for him to see, there were those towers of stone and a _woman_ in front of him. A very tall woman in very strange clothes and she turned her back on him and his tank and began sprinting toward a squat vehicle of some sort. There were two people at the vehicle already, a very small blonde woman and an older Negro man. Then he spotted two young men running from opposite directions. They were all dressed the same, as if in uniforms. As the wind brought the sand back and he began to lose visibility, he realized that the people had all jumped into that odd vehicle and were closing all the openings and that his tank was on a direct collision course with it. He yelled down for the tank to turn left and as he lost complete visibility, he felt the slight bump that indicated the tank had struck something.

He sincerely hoped that it was a glancing blow and not one that did great damage. To Hans, thinking about injuring or possibly killing women, even by accident, turned his stomach.

His forehead creased in a deeper frown as he tried to picture the scene again and perhaps, remember a few more details. It was the same location as the first time. Those strange pillars of stone were identical. And the time of day was the same. The shadows cast by those huge buttes had been the same. He had an incredible memory for locations and landmarks and that was his second time in that place. But how had he and his tank gotten there?

If he was right, that location was on the other side of the world, many thousands of miles away, and it was impossible for a wind, any wind, to pick up his tank and carry it to another part of the world. Wasn't it? He had never been a fan of those strange stories that his young cousin, Dieter, read. What did he call them? Fiction of Science? No, Science Fiction. Yes, that was it. He read those badly printed pulp magazines, Astounding, Amazing, titles that were supposed to enthrall. He personally found them rather boring and not at all believable, but his cousin was very young and he was certain that everything that was written in them would someday come to pass. Dieter believed in rocket ships to the Moon, Mars and places much further out. He believed in alien (as he referred to them) invaders and colonies on other worlds with other suns. He believed in the inherent goodness and humanity of mankind. He was a gentle child and Hans prayed that he would never learn different.

Hans sat tapping his pen on the paper and sighed. Perhaps he is right and I am wrong. Perhaps the Queen of Hearts was correct. He grinned, remembering reading _Through the Looking Glass_ to his very young cousins one year at Christmas. Perhaps it is possible to believe six impossible things before breakfast. Maybe I should try it.

He looked down at the forms, shook his head and filled them out, omitting all reference to sandstorms, impossible visits to the American West, seeing people that could not be and feeling his tank bump something that could not possibly be there. He was not ready for Science Fiction to perhaps be science fact and neither was Berlin.

_**She went where?!...**_

Special Agent Thomas Jones, FBI, held his temper in check, barely. He remembered what Rachel had told him about waiting till he was sure the person talking was through, but it was a battle for self control.

He had returned from Page and found TSgt. Wallis grim-faced and tight-jawed. Rachel was gone, missing. So were Iverson, Corny, Watters (two t's, please, ma'am), and Williams. They had headed over to the area where Uncle Old Tree had stated he and Old Man Logan had seen Coyote and had disappeared off the face of the earth. The search had been going on for five hours now and not a single sign had been found. Not a sat phone answered, not a pager responded to, no radio calls returned, and the GPS could not find the locator on the hummer.

Finally, he was sure that Grammy Agnes had stopped talking and he asked in a low roar, "Where did she go!?"

The old woman blinked at him and nodded sharply, she was pleased with his concern. "She has gone to find Coyote and wrestle with him until he surrenders. Then she will be back."

Thomas waited a couple of heartbeats and this time the roar was not low, "WHEN!?"

Agnes Billy pursed her lips and studied the man in front of her. He was almost frantic with fear and the other one who stood at his back, a chieftain of her Great-granddaughter's war band, he was also fearful, only not so much. As it should be, Thomas held Rachel in his heart, the other did not. "Soon."

Thomas took a deep breath and just as it was about to burst out of him in violent words, the firm hand of Uncle Old Tree grasped his shoulder. "Nephew, Rachel YanaBa is a warrior. She descends from warriors. Her Navajo name, YanaBa, means that She Meets the Enemy. It is her nature, it is her destiny and if you would change that, then she is not herself any longer. She has her battles to fight and you have yours. Let her fight her battle. My mother has seen her return. She has gone far, very far. Both in time and space, but she will return."

"But…" Thomas was desperately hunting for the right words to make these people understand that he was terrified for her, and for himself. Nearly forty years alone, seeking without ever knowing just what it was he was looking for and now he had finally found the one person to fill the hole in his life and what if he lost her?

Agnes Billy's eyes closed and then snapped open and she walked over and placed her hands on Thomas's cheeks. "Man who loves my Rachel, understand me, she will be safe, she will return. This I have seen. You will name your first child, Samuel. She does not go into the dark without you."

Thomas blinked several times, dang dust, it got into everything and tried to accept what he was being told. He had seen and heard stranger things so why was he having so much difficulty accepting? Because it directly affected him and Rachel and their future together. He sighed deeply, turned his head and pressed a kiss into one of the palms resting on his face. "Thank you, Grammy Agnes, forgive me for doubting, it is only that I fear for her."

She grunted and patted his cheek. "I know. You are only a man but you have a good heart. From you, I will accept ten horses, twenty sheep and only one Squash Blossom necklace for my great-grandchild."

It got the expected laugh and she turned back to the cook fire to allow the men to formulate their plans and run in small circles as men are wont to do when there is nothing they can do. She smiled and instructed the wind to carry her words to her great-grandchild, "He is acceptable, child. Return soon and make me a great-great-grandmother."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Somewhen**

_Testing the waters…_

Night had fallen and the Rats and their new allies were sipping hot coffee, real sure enough coffee, and watching each other watch each other. The younger members of the group had somehow drifted away and were busy playing poker. From where Troy sat, it looked like that gal, Sgt., no, Staff Sergeant Cornelius had all of Hitch's bubble gum in front of her and was working hard on Tully's supply of matchsticks. He shook his head and grinned before looking back at the two sitting across the small fire from him and Moffitt.

"Okay, one of you wants to open the dance and tell us a bit more about yourselves than just names and the fact that you not supposed to be here?" Troy decided that he needed to know a whole lot more than he did. "Like what the hell are you, I mean, what kind of patrol are you? Or are you a patrol?"

The Captain looked at the NCO and he shrugged, "Hell, Cap, can't be any stranger than it already is, might as well put our cards on the table."

She nodded, "True." She looked at Troy and grimaced, "We are a Situation Team. Yes, yes, with capitol letters. And before you ask, we are sort of investigators and sort of enforcers. Sort of." She saw the puzzled looks and sighed, "Okay, Army CID…they investigate crimes committed by and against the Army, right?"

At their nods, she continued, "But what if you run up against something that can't be explained? That makes no sense and no one can figure out what, where, when, who and why. That is a _Situation._ Every branch of the military has their criminal investigators, but only the Air Force has a Situation Team, actually there are five teams scattered around the world. But we respond to any _Situation_ for any branch of the military and sometimes, the Federal Government. We don't do forensics, don't ask, it is too complicated to explain in five minutes, and we don't break down doors and arrest people. We are hands on investigators. We use deductive, inductive and by gosh and by golly reasoning." Before Moffitt could speak, she held up a hand, "By gosh, let's try this. By golly, it works or doesn't work. If it can't be explained by mundane means, they call us."

From the side of the cave where the poker game was going on, Troy heard the three new people break into a chorus, "Who ya gonna call? Ghostbusters!"

Donovan rolled her eyes, sighed, and Iverson suddenly broke into a cough that sounded like a smothered laugh. "It's a movie, a very silly movie about a group of people who run around fighting and shooing ghosts away. We are NOT Ghostbusters. We are investigators. We are autonomous. We take orders only from General Fo….our commanding general. No one in any branch of the military can give us orders except our Commander. So far, we are Air Force members only, but the General is making noises about a medic, which means Navy. We've worked with the Army, the Navy, the Marines and once with the Coast Guard and we get a bit of extra training each time. Sometimes we need skills that the run of the mill Zoomie doesn't get. He, our Commander, is Army, which makes for an interesting chain of command. It keeps most people too confused to ask too many questions because they are busy trying to work out the logistics."

Moffitt sat and stared, processing information and trying to make it add up to a nice logical number. It didn't.

"What the hell is a Zoomie?" Sam jumped on what he figured was the most obvious anachronism.

Iverson spoke before the Captain, "The Marines are Jar Heads, Devil Dogs, and Leather Necks. The Army are Ground Pounders or Grunts. The Navy gets called Swabbies, Squids, and Nucs. The Coast Guard, hell, they are dedicated to saving lives, no one bad mouths them. Air Force, Zoomies, Space Heads, and the Social Club. Supposedly because we don't do anything except fly around all day and drink coffee and sip cocktails. Civilians get their heads knocked off when they use those terms. Those of us that "are," we scuffle around a bit, trade insults and then go have a beer together in the club."

Troy chuckled, "Yeah, I can understand that. Uh, back to one of my original questions…what is a Senior Master Sergeant? And no offense, but how did a Negro move so high in the ranks? I've only seen Negro drivers, cooks and supply personnel and what kind of military has little girls that out rank me!?"

Donovan quirked her lips into a derisive half smile and waved a hand at Iverson, "Run with it, Dan."

Iverson took a deep breath and tried to put his thoughts in order. He knew these men were not being offensive, theirs was simply a different time and a different attitude. Come to think of it, he hadn't heard a "boy" or an insult since they "arrived." These men seemed like pretty solid soldiers who didn't have time or patience for prejudices. "Okay, in this time, I'm an anachronism, I don't fit, and neither does the Cap or that little SSgt. back there cleaning out everyone's pockets. I should have warned you about her. Once we taught her to play poker, we all locked up our wallets. She has a computer in her head." He waved away the blank looks, "I'll explain later."

"Anyway, in _our_ time, the military finally figured out that they were wasting a lot of potential and man power, or woman power. We've had a Civil Rights Movement and while there is still a lot of prejudice, mostly behind closed doors, we, Blacks, have moved into every social level and job type in the country. We are judged by our ability, not our skin color. As for the women, they just flat stood up and demanded to be allowed to do any job they were capable of and be paid the same as the guy doing the same job. That didn't take as long as the Civil Rights Movement, women are more vicious and determined than men, any day of the week."

A faint "hear, hear," came from the other side of the cave and Troy had to laugh.

Moffitt smiled, "It is a commonly held fact that the female of any species is more vicious than the male."

"Ain't that the truth!? Anyway, we all just kind of mish-mash together, do our jobs and don't worry too much about who is what and what shade of whatever. We still run into some knot heads that think things today, tomorrow…our time…anyway that think all this freedom and such like is against "God's Plan."

"That don't make no sense." Tully's voice carried from the other side of the cave and when the four "seniors" looked over, they found that the "juniors" had stopped playing poker and were engrossed in the conversation. "Since when did God have a plan about white and black and men and women except for getting 'em together and making friends and families out of them?"

Corny looked at Captain Donovan's slightly puzzled expression and shrugged, "He's always been that way, Cap. He always taught me to judge each person as an individual. Kentucky never had much of a racism problem. They didn't have a plantation type industry and hill folks were too busy trying to stay alive to worry about who lived down the road."

"Oh, okay, I suppose that is a bit of reverse prejudice on my part. Sorry, Tully, 1942, Southerner, I expected a bit of racism. My apologies."

Tully waved a hand and moved the match stick from one side of his grin to the other. "Kinda like that. Imagine, a real Captain sayin' sorry to the likes of me. Dumb old country boy."

Corny slammed her hand flat on the "table" and was on her feet before anyone had any idea what was happening. She was practically nose to nose with Tully and with him sitting down and her standing up, it was pretty even.

"Don't you ever, ever say something like that about yourself again. Do you hear me? My grandpa Tully is not dumb. He is one of the smartest men I've ever known. He came back from the war, got a high school diploma and went on to college. Someone he met during the war," she tossed a look at Moffitt, "got him interested in Anthropology and he got his degree in that, and his masters and his Doctorate, so don't you ever call yourself dumb again."

A round of applause followed this speech along with a bit of laughter as Tully turned bright red, ducked his head and muttered, "Yes, ma'am."

"Spunky little thing, isn't she?" Troy grinned.

"Confident rather. Sure of herself and her abilities and proud of doing an important job and doing it well." Donovan retorted.

Troy nodded slowly, "Yeah, I can see that. It's going to take some getting used to, these changes you were talking about. It's sort of like you. I was thinking earlier that I had never met a woman who even understood responsibility to others like you do."

Donovan sat up straight as a board and glared at him. She was silent for a moment, obviously gathering her thoughts together. "Okay, let's play that game. Ever know a widow with two or three small kids?"

Troy cocked an eyebrow and nodded, "Sure, my mom."

"Fine, let's use your mom. When your dad died, did she go on welfare or Aid to Children or Government dole, whatever it is called in 1942? Immediately start looking for some man that would support her and her kids? Beg on the street? Run home to her parents and let them support her and you kids? Find a street corner and set up in _business_?"

Troy flushed bright red and Moffitt ducked his head to hide the slight smile that was playing on his lips. Iverson studied the small portion of the cavern ceiling that the LED lights revealed. The "juniors" were suddenly very engrossed with their poker game.

"NO! She did none of those things and you have no right to talk that way about her."

"You missed the point, Shorty. She probably went out and got a job, worked long hours for little pay, came home, cleaned house, fixed dinner, checked homework, got you kids in bed and then went to her bed and cried herself to sleep. If that is not a sense of responsibility, then I'll be damned if I know what is!"

The red color receded from his face and neck and was replaced by a pallid gray. It took a couple of minutes before he managed to get his vocal cords working again, "I never saw it. I never looked at it that way. All those years and she never let us see what she was going through."

"No, it was her responsibility, her duty to bring you kids up to be the best you could be, to face the world with all the weapons she could give you. Written her lately?" The last question was not sarcastic or sardonic, it was asked with genuine curiosity.

"No, not for a couple of weeks." He was silent again for a long time and then cleared his throat, "Seems like a good thing to do tonight." He cleared his throat again, "It seems that I owe you another apology."

"Nope, not me. Just make sure you let your mom know how much you appreciate what she has done for you. And stop and look at more than one side of an argument before you lead with your chin. Hurts a hell of a lot less."

Troy rubbed his chin and then grinned, "Yeah, it would, wouldn't it? Okay, now that we have cleared the air on several points, how the hell did you get here, now, whatever?"

"We were up in northern Arizona, investigating the disappearance of two FBI agents from a helicopter in mid…." Her words trailed off and she and Iverson were like a pair of hunting dogs on a scent. Troy and Moffitt had stiffened and exchanged a quick glance. "Okay, what do you know about my two missing FBI agents? I can see it _writ large_ on your faces."

Moffitt temporized, allowing Troy to get his thoughts together, "Then the experimental aircraft that the Germans and the Russians are calling helicopters have become a common mode of transportation. How delightful. I've always felt they had an interesting future."

"Nice try, Moffitt, but I learned specious rhetoric from the best. Now answer the question."

Troy related the events leading up to the discovery of the two bodies and Moffitt produced the papers, wallets, letters, and pocket contents. "We buried them out there in the desert, right where we found them. Wasn't much else we could do."

Donovan carefully bundled up the dead men's belongings and passed them to Iverson who took them to the hummer. "Yeah, I can get behind that. Wait a minute. Let me think, something is knocking at the back door." She closed her eyes and Moffitt could see her eyes under the eyelids moving back and forth very quickly, almost as though she was reading a book in her head. Her eyes snapped open and she pointed at Troy, "What time of the day was it, when you found them, or heard them or whatever?"

He thought about it for a minute and then responded, "Nearly eight, we were slow getting started that day, that storm had kept us awake most of the night and we were tired and, frankly, just a bit unnerved."

"Early morning, sandstorm, Dan, what time did we leave camp? When did we hit the plateau and start looking around, just before the sandstorm hit."

Iverson nodded, "It was just about eight. Jones had left for Page and we just headed out. Sun was up and it took us a couple of hours, so we left camp about six. Didn't even stop for breakfast." There was a touch of rebuke in his tone.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll buy you breakfast when we get back."

"It's a date."


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

**Somewhen**

_All alone in the dark…_

Troy rolled to his right when he heard a faint movement from the other side of the cave. They had talked until well into the early morning hours. The "juniors" had given up hours ago and gone to bed. Both Hitch and Tully had offered Corny, as they called her, their cots but she had refused and watching them prepare to sleep, he understood why. They had some kind of blow up mattresses that they laid on the ground over some shiny blanket like sheets.

"It blocks the cold." Iverson had offered when Moffitt had gone over to take a close look at them.

Troy had watched as the three "kids," as he thought of them, removed belts and boots. He noted that the boots were turned upside down to help prevent anything from crawling into them. One eye on the "juniors" and one eye on Donovan and Iverson, he was impressed by the discipline shown by the "kids." Their weapons were safed and within reach and they had all rolled into more of those metallic blankets.

"Keeps body heat in. Real versatile thing, space blankets." Iverson added with a grin.

Space blankets, of course, necessitated another explanation and some serious incredulity that man had really gone to the moon, not once, but several times. Troy wasn't quite ready to swallow such a tall tale, but Moffitt seemed to have no trouble with it at all.

They had finally given up and all headed for sleep, all four with a tremendous amount of information to try to process and make some kind of sense of.

Troy heard that faint sound again and then saw a tall shadow head toward the back of the cave where the tunnel led down to storage and the main drawing point of this place, constant fresh water.

Troy eased out of his cot and didn't bother to put his boots on. It wasn't that he didn't trust these people, that area back there could be dangerous for the unwary, slippery and easy to trip. Okay, so he didn't trust them completely. It was an enormous amount of strange information to accept at face value, just on trust. If Donovan was going back there to use the "facilities," he'd back out and she'd never know. But with ammo and explosives and food back there, he wanted to make sure.

He stopped short of the tunnel and listened before continuing. One hand on the tunnel wall, he negotiated the short passage and stopped short when he spotted Donovan sitting on the ground with one of those fancy light-the-whole-world lanterns of hers. She was sitting cross legged, elbows on knees, head down in her hands. There was a tired look to her slumped back and bowed head.

"Come on down, Shorty." She spoke without looking up. "I heard you leave your cot. You're good, but I grew up listening to the sounds of the night."

Troy sighed and sat down beside her. "That noisy, huh?"

"No, not really, but your cot creaks, then I heard your hand slide on the rock."

He snorted a laugh. "Yeah, well, we can't all have fancy mattresses and whatever those space blanket things are. Problems, Cap?"

"Yeah, big ones. I've got to get those people back there home, to their time. Let's face it, Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) and Williams, they're good troops, but they are not prepared for all out war. Hell, they haven't even heard a shot fired in anger yet, and I'd really like to keep it that way. Corny, she'll stand, but she's a technician, a computer geek, not a warrior. Iverson and I, well, we've seen the elephant as they say. It isn't pretty and I refuse to write letters about how bravely and stupidly someone's son or daughter died for some reason that even I don't understand. Hell, I think Corny is still a virgin and she deserves the chance to fix that."

Troy blinked and processed that one for a minute, "Uh, isn't that the way it is supposed to be? Until she gets married?"

Donovan laughed quietly, "Are _you_? Can we get real here? Remember, Women's Rights and all that crap? She so damn pretty that I'm not even sure she has ever had a real date? Guys are afraid that she'll say no, so they don't even ask. So there she sits on Saturday night, all alone. Thomas, that's my fiancé, says that she wants to be me, when she grows up."

Troy laughed and then in deference to those sleeping in the main cavern, smothered it behind a hand. "She is going to have to put on some serious inches."

"Yeah, I know." Donovan finally smiled.

"This Thomas…is he military, too?"

She shook her head, "No, he's a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI. Those are his men out there in the desert and he is going to be torn up when we get back and he finds out what happened."

"Yeah, it's hard to lose someone like that. No matter if didn't have any control over the situation, you always feel like you should have done something more to keep them alive."

Donovan nodded, "Yeah, that's about it. We have to get back to our time. We could do too much damage to the, what the hell was it that Corny called it? The time continuum. We know things that haven't happened yet, and my degree is in World War II Military History. I can tell you the when, the where, the why, and the who of most of the major battles and a good number of critical but minor ones. Some I've forgotten and the Pacific never grabbed my attention and held it. The War in Europe and Africa, that was where my interest lay. I could really mess things up just by being here and making some off the wall remark that someone picks up on and that could change the course of history. And if I don't want to be known as the idiot who blew up Arizona, you can bet that I don't want to be the one that ended the world ahead of time."

Troy grunted and frowned, "Yeah, I can see where that could be a serious problem. Not to mention that all of you would wind up locked in some secret lab somewhere while the guys in white coats tried to drain your brains. Not a real good thing to look forward to."

"Yeah, especially since I broke about a gazillion regs keeping a nice little family from getting shoved into one of those secret labs. I'm not willing to take their place, if I can help it." She smiled as she remembered back a couple of years and the strange little green elephant looking visitors that had landed their _Big, Shiny, Silver, Round Thingy_ (1) in a farmer's field with "engine trouble."

"Huh?"

She waved a hand, "It isn't important, well, it is, but if I tell you about it, then I'll have to shoot you and if I hear myself tell you about it, I'll have to shoot myself, as well, and I already have a headache. I don't need any loud noises right now."

Troy muffled his laugh behind his hand and shook his head. "You are the damnedest female I have ever met."

"Why thank you, kind sir. That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me all day."

Sam cleared his throat and when Donovan glanced at him, he asked, "You said you had something knocking at the back of your brain. Did it finally get in?"

"I think so." She sighed and stretched her back then leaned over to draw a finger through the fine sand that had drifted in over the centuries and covered the floor of the cavern. She drew a rough topographical sketch, "Buttes, plateau, my Grammy Agnes's Hogan. Right here," her finger pointed to the center of the plateau, "that is where Old Man Logan and my Uncle Old Tree, no smart remarks, please." She grinned as Troy held up both hands in surrender, "That is where they saw the German Panzer tank come out of a sand storm with Coyote driving it." At his blank look, she gave him a quick lesson on the Trickster. "They both served in this desert before going to the Pacific. They know what a Panzer looks like. They would not have moved. You don't move and draw the attention of Coyote and both of them were very traditional." She moved her finger slightly to the West. "That is where the FBI Agents disappeared out of a moving helicopter, in the middle of a sandstorm. They were moving." Her finger moved closer to the first point. "This is where the sand storm blew up and we saw the Panzer coming out of it. There was a man in the hatch, very tall, fair hair, goggles, Afrika Korps uniform. We beat feet for the hummer and battened down. We didn't move…but just before the sand storm died away, the tank nudged us and the whole hummer slid a bit. I think the movement is what did it. Brought us back here, to this time. I'll have to run it by Corny and let her do the math." She grimaced, "I do good to balance my checkbook and I will never master Einsteinian Math. Never in a million years."

Troy thought about it for a couple of minutes and then nodded, "I don't understand it, but we probably ought to put your little genius and our Doc Moffitt together and see what they come up with."

"The thing that worries me, what if it has to be the same tank? How do we find one Panzer in all of Africa?"

Sam thought about that for a long time before he looked up, "Hey, did you spot any numbers or letter on the tank? Front, side? Anywhere? We might be able to trace it if you can remember any of the designator. Mmmmm, we can tell HQ that we think it's an experimental tank and have they seen it so we can go hunt it down."

Rachel closed her eyes and reran the scene in her mind. She blanked out the scenery, the dust, everything except the tank. "B there was a B up on the turret and, wait a minute…thirty-four. Yeah, that was it, thirty-four under it. That was about all I had time to really see before I turned and ran. Hey, what's up?" She frowned at the look on Troy's face.

"Dietrich. Damn Herr Hauptman Hans Dietrich. You might know."

"A bad guy?" Rachel asked.

Troy shook his head, "No, it's hard to explain Dietrich. He's, hell, he's like Rommel. Honorable, a soldier, not a Nazi. We've had a few run-ins. Traded a few shots, He saved my life once, I saved his, together we saved a little girl who fell into a well. It would take too long to explain the man. He's…complex." He suddenly laughed, "Coyote, damn good description of him. A Trickster. Yeah, that's Dietrich. I'm starting to get an idea. Let me think on it a bit, Captain. We both need some sleep and since you told me to get this show on the road, hit the hay, Cap. We'll both think clearer in the morning after some sleep." He stood up and reached a hand down to her.

She shrugged, grasped his hand and unfolded from the floor. "You are right and that is why the NCOs run the military, they just keep us around to sign requisitions. Good night, Sarge." She waited for him to join her in the tunnel and just before they reached the main room of the cavern, she turned that strange lantern off.

They each found their way to their kips by the light of the fire and settled in.

(1) A shameless plug for my first NaNoWriMo novel.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

**Somewhen**

_Roughing it…_

The following morning was what appeared to be a scene from a Three Stooges movie, but was, in actuality, a very well choreographed ballet.

Corny and Moffitt were in a corner throwing mathematical formulae at each other. The Rat Patrol had gathered around in awe as she powered up her laptop and started running program after program. When Donovan had mentioned the lack of the internet, Corny had given her a pitying look and replied, "Cap, I have the OED, the Britannica, the Americana, all of the Roget books, the Wikipedia, and please, don't ask me how I managed that and I will tell you no lies. Translation programs, just about every math program there is in the world and some stuff that we, the Geek Squad, thought up but haven't really run through tests yet and even a few novels if we need to take a break and rest our brains. And Williams and Hitch have figured out a way to recharge the spare batteries that I never travel without. We can rough it."

Troy hid a smile as Donovan turned away, muttering under her breath about getting no respect.

Moffitt goggled at the idea of "roughing it" with multiple encyclopedias and reference books at the ready. The computer had him itching to just snatch it away and start playing with it. He was sincerely disappointed when Corny informed him that he had at least a twenty year wait for the first hideously expensive idiot computer to enter the home and another ten or so beyond that before they would be common enough for people to start writing "user friendly" programs and then another ten or more before he would be able to log onto the "internet" as she called it. Moffitt suddenly felt like a kid who had been told that the months to wait before Christmas had suddenly turned into years.

Troy just shook his head and left them to it. He stumped over to where Donovan and Iverson were sitting over a map. "We need to do some scouting. I hate to say this, but I don't think you should go out where you can be seen." He indicated Iverson and just for an instant Dan's nostrils flared and then he thought about it.

"Yeah, you are probably right. I do stand out, don't I? Well, take the Cap, she's pretty good at that sort of thing. She's got an instinct. She just sorta smells out things that aren't supposed to be there. Saved my bacon a time or two. I'll get those two," he thumbed in the direction of the two male Airmen, "to clean up, get some kind of meal ready and have everything ready for a fast pull out."

Donovan gave both men a killing look, "So, now I'm a blood hound?" She lifter her lip in a snarl at the two grinning NCOs and stalked over to start folding blankets.

Iverson motioned to Troy and the two men moved across the cavern to speak in soft voices.

"Listen, son, the Cap, she's good. She can hit anything she wants to with that M-4. She hates the things, says it jams too much, but that's what we have in our inventory right now. The only reason she isn't on the Air Force Shooting Team is that she doesn't get into all that competition stuff. She'll walk through hell for her people. She doesn't back down. I don't know if it is berserker blood from some Norse invaders of Ireland on her Dad's side or the just-won't-quit-no-matter-what attitude from her Mother's ancestors. Be prepared. Don't let her get killed, or I'll haunt you for the rest of your life. She's like my own kid. Got it?"

Troy nodded and grinned, "Got it, sir."

Iverson swung a mock punch, "Don't call me sir, I work for a living."

"You got it." Troy paused, "I'll take care of her. Taking care of officers is one of the major duties of an NCO. We'll try to get all of you back where you belong. No guarantees, but we're sure as hell going to try."

"About the best anyone can ask for." Iverson turned on his heel and walked back to the hummer to start chivying the two young men into "gear."

Troy studied the situation for a moment, motioned to his drivers and asked Captain Donovan to join them "at her convenience." As she marched over, he heard again that muttering about respect.

Tully gazed at the ceiling as if trying to memorize every crack and crevice.

Hitch kept running his hand across his face in an effort to wipe the grin away. He was only partially successful.

"Cap, you ride with Tully. We're going out slow and careful. This mission is scouting only. We are not going after anything unless it comes after us first. We need to find Dietrich." That brought two young heads around to stare at him. He gave them a fast rundown on Dietrich's tank being involved in the time shift. "We just want to find him, not attack, got that?"

Hitch nodded and headed for the heavy steel plate to place his ear against it and listen for anything that smacked of movement. Tully shifted his match stick, winked and went over to join Hitch.

After several minutes, the two men raised the heavy door and ran out to check the surrounding area. While they were gone, Troy and Donovan drove the jeeps out of the cave, attached the rakes and between them, wrestled the door down.

When Hitch and Tully came running back, the jeeps were running quietly in neutral, waiting for the familiar hands of their drivers. The jeeps climbed the grade and moved out at a slow crawl to prevent a cloud of dust announcing their location. About half a mile out, they stopped and the drivers detached the racks and hid them under some brush in a small wadi. While this was being done, Troy and Donovan climbed dunes opposite each other and took slow, careful looks around. Donovan turned at a faint click, spotted Troy's thumb up, thumb down signal. She signaled thumbs up and slid down the dune to climb into the jeep beside Tully.

"Hang on, Cap." Tully switched his matchstick from one side of his mouth to the other and the jeeps cruised along at a steady clip.

After about the fourth stop to scout, Troy slid down the dunes to the jeeps but didn't climb in. He waved the others over and pulled a map from a case under the seat. "Okay, we are here, more or less without waiting for night and shooting the stars." His finger slid to the north and east, "There are tank tracks here and they are heading east. We need to take a look. Let's get to the next crest and take a peek."

Donovan climbed in beside Tully and cleared her carbine to make sure the dust had not decided to make a home in it. The two jeeps moved slowly eastward and stopped below a large line of dunes. Troy clambered out and motioned Donovan to follow him. At the top of the dune, they both dropped belly down into the sand and gazed with curious eyes at the small camp set up in the wadi below and about 500 yards out.

Troy was about to lift his glasses to his eyes when Donovan stopped him with a hand on his arm. He glanced over at her and she handed over her binoculars. The lenses had a smoky look to them and he decided they must be designed to not reflect light. He took them, searched the camp carefully and that cocky grin of his flashed. "Bingo."

He handed the glasses back and the Captain looked down and after about a minute, she started to grin. "B-34, big as life and twice as ugly."

Troy jerked his head down the slope and they both slid down to the jeeps. Troy held a hand up for silence, pulled out the map and pointed to a location about two miles away. Tully and Hitch waited for Troy and Donovan to pile in and then headed west at a slow, deliberate pace, calculated not to leave a _flag_ of dust behind them. Shortly they were in the wadi and all four were standing around the hood of Tully's jeep.

"Okay, we got Dietrich here." He tapped the map. "Agarawa is here. There is a wadi…" He studied the map toward the west and slightly north before tapping a finger, "here. Cap, can that shoulder gizmo of yours get through to Iverson?"

She shook her head, "It is short range only without a satellite to send it on to a repeater tower." She rolled her eyes at the blank looks. "Never mind, no, it won't." She shrugged and grinned.

Troy shook his head, "Okay, then we have to return to Agarawa. Our radio won't make it through all that rock not to mention that everyone and his uncle monitors all the frequencies. Shake it."

Everyone climbed into the jeeps and they made their slow, careful way back to Agarawa, stopping to pick up and attach the rakes. When they reached the monster rock, they clambered out to open the steel door. All of them took a step back when they were confronted by five weapons. "Hey, guys, it's only us. Take it easy."

Moffitt and Corny were the first ones gone. From the cave opening, Donovan could see that the packing crate that was used as a table had Corny's laptop on it and about ten million pieces of scribbled paper. Iverson nodded to the two male Airmen and they headed back down to where something sitting on a fire smelled good.

After wrestling the door shut, Troy slapped his hat against his leg a couple of time to shake the dust out. Tully and Hitch moved the jeeps down away from the door and safed the weapons. When Troy looked over, Donovan was braiding that mop of hers. He wondered why she didn't just cut most of it off and then he realized that in her time, she didn't have to keep it hidden all the time.

Pretty soon, everyone was gathered around the packing crate waiting for a verdict from their two "scientists."

Moffitt looked up and grinned, "Captain, if I give you a hundred camels, may I keep this insignificant child of yours? I swear by my father's beard, she will do no physical labor. She will dress only in the finest of silks and the softest of linens. Her toes shall never be stubbed for she will be carried by four of the strongest men who will guard her from the slightest upset. She will be attended by four of the fairest maidens who will fan her and ensure no insect shall approach her. She will eat only the first fruits and sip nectar. Her every wish will be granted."

Corny giggled and shook her head.

Donovan narrowed one eye and stared at Jack, "No. Not even for two hundred camels. I have grown used to having the worthless creature around and she is much too decorative to be entrusted to a man. In sha'a Allah, I will keep her safe in my keeping and return her to her parents as they gave her to me."

Moffitt tilted an eyebrow and grinned, "Very good, Captain. I see you spent your time in Iraq well and learned a bit of the mindset."

"_Know your enemy_, Sun Tzu. It is as true now…uh, in our time, as it was in the sixth century." Donovan grinned.

"Indeed. But we are only delaying things with all this idle banter." He grinned as Troy's eyes rolled to the ceiling. "What this brilliant young lady and I have surmised is that you, your team, should be near the place that you came through the, oh, let us call it a rip in time to our time, at about the same time, during one of those strange sandstorms, and Dietrich's tank should nudge your vehicle just enough to move it slightly. That should reverse the rip and send you home. Of course, you realize that this is all conjecture and, how did you put it, oh yes, by gosh and by golly. It may work, it may not."

Corny spoke up, "We've run the numbers about every way it is possible to run them and we keep coming back to the same conclusion. The problem is going to be to get everything in the right place at the right time. And frankly, trying to predict a sandstorm is like trying to find one snowflake in a million."

Everyone thought about that for a few moments and then Tully cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him and he shifted the matchstick nervously. Finally he cleared his throat agan, "What about if maybe Dietrich and his tank are like the yeast? What's that word you use, Doc? That thing that starts everything up?"

Moffitt thought a moment, "A catalyst?"

"Yeah, that's the word. What if maybe him and that tank are the cat-a-list? Maybe all you need ta do is get everything in the same place? Maybe."

Moffitt and Corny looked at each other and shrugged. "Makes sense to me in a weird kind of way." Corny offered.

Moffitt slowly nodded agreement. "I believe you may have happened onto the answer, Tully. Out of the mouths of babes."

Tully bristled a bit but subsided when Corny grinned at him. "Way to go, Gramps." She giggled at the disgusted look on his face and everyone else either smiled or got very busy very fast.

Donovan raised a hand, "Excuse me, but I do see one small fly in the ointment."

Everyone looked at her and she shrugged, "I do believe that this Hauptman Dietrich of _Die Afrika Korps _and his _German_ tank are enemy combatants and are hardly likely to run to jump on the band wagon to help us out."

Moffitt shook his head slightly, "It is hard to predict the good Captain. I have seen him do his very best to capture or kill all of us and by the same token, do something to save us, something that could cost him his career and his life. There is a rumor, just a rumor, mind you, among the Arabs, that once he smuggled a Jewish child to Sirta to get him on a ship to America for medical treatment. He is a most unusual man. When this war is over, I think I would very much like to get to know him better."

Troy grunted his agreement and straightened up. "Well, we can always do what we did when you needed blood."

Moffitt's eyes widened a bit, "Just waltz into his camp and tell him you want his help? You are ambitious. I can see kidnapping him, but how do we get his tank? And keep all of us from getting killed?"

"I'll think about it for a while. Anyone come up with any ideas, let's toss 'em on the table and stir 'em around." Troy tossed over his shoulder and headed for the coffee pot hanging over the fire.


	16. Chapter 16 Oops

**Chapter 15 **

**Oops**

Shame on me.

As someone so rightly pointed out, they have no idea what NaNoWriMo is.

You know how it is, if you have been doing something for years, you feel like everyone is doing it.

Mea culpa, mea culpa.

NaNoWriMo is…National Novel Writing Month or...well, this program keeps deleting the website, so lets try this...nanowrimo, 1st part, dot, 2nd part, org, 3rd part.

That helped a lot, right? Snicker. Okay, every year starting the first minute of November, myself and a gazillion folks around the world sit down at the smoking word processor, the typewriter (remember those?) or the plain old note pad and pencil and start writing. We have one month…from 0001 on 1 Nov, until 2359 on 30 Nov to write 50,000 words. And that is not quite as simple as it seems.

We plot and character create (in our heads) for the whole year before the write in and then our characters decide they don't want to play that game, they want to do something else and there we are, pulling our hair and screaming.

So, now you know the rest of the story. Oops, sorry, Paul.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 16**

**Somewhen**

_Not again…_

Plotting, planning, cussing, discussing and eating had gone on for a couple of hours before everyone was comfortable, or at least semi-comfortable with the plan.

Hitch with Williams riding shotgun and wearing Troy's hat would take one jeep. Tully and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) would take the other with Watters wearing Moffitt's beret. Their uniforms were traded for spares that were tucked away back in the "storage" area of the cavern.

Moffitt would take Iverson, Corny and the hummer to the prearranged rendezvous in the wadi where the Rat Patrol had first spotted the Situation Team. It was as close to the entry point as they could figure.

Troy and Donovan were tucked in the back of the jeeps and covered with canvas to keep the illusion of the Rat Patrol as real as possible. Tully and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) grinned at each other as they listened to steady litany of name calling and grousing about the overall lack of respect for the officers of the United States Air Force from the canvas covered lump behind them.

After shutting down the cave and clearing the back track, they all slowly headed for their own particular points of responsibility.

It took the "Rats" just over an hour to reach the wadi where Dietrich had his camp.

After making sure that Dietrich and his tanks were still in place, Donovan and Troy took to the sand and started working their way around to the back of the camp. Their objective was to slip into the Headquarters tent. When they were in position, hidden in some brush behind the tent, Donovan triggered her radio and told Williams, "Go."

Troy grinned as the two jeeps came flying down the wadi, tossed a couple of grenades into an ammo bunker and raced back out of range. Their objective was to confuse and harass, not to engage. They were to hit and run, causing as much confusion as possible. They did a good job of it. Troy heard running feet leave the tent and slid closer to take a look. Empty. He motioned to Donovan and she slid under the canvas like a snake.

Troy shook his head and grinned at the sense of déjà vu. The tent was set up exactly like it had been the last time. Good old German efficiency. He spotted a tall locker to the right of the entrance and motioned for Donovan to take up position in the shadowy corner. He slid back behind the makeshift partition that hid Dietrich's cot, and waited.

(1) Dietrich ground his teeth and strode back into his tent_. __Diese verfluchte Ratte-Patrouille._ He stopped, took a deep breath and pulled out a cigarette. Turning, he headed for his field desk to get his lighter when something jabbed him in the back, just hard enough to get his attention and let him know that the barrel of some weapon was centered on his spine. His first reaction was dumbfounded shock. It could not be, not again. He turned slowly to discover it was, again.

Troy extended his Zippo, flicked it and held it to the unlit cigarette. "Need a light, Captain?"

Dietrich inhaled reflexively and then just stood staring at his nemesis. This could not be happening, not again.

"I need your help." Stated Troy in that flat way he had that informed anyone listening that he intended to have that help.

Dietrich shook his head and wondered if he had wandered into Alice's Looking Glass.

"I need your help." Snapped Troy again.

_Very well, _Dietrich thought, _I will play the scene out. _"A rather unusual way of asking for it."

"I'm not asking." Responded Troy.

"I am."

Dietrich whirled to his left and watched the woman step out of the shadows behind the portable locker. He stared wide-eyed. "I know you! No, I do not know you, I have seen you. Two days ago. In a place that can not be." He narrowed his eyes and swept them over the tall woman and her bizarre uniform. His eyes were caught by the two bars on her collar points. He swung around to face Troy and mouthed, "Captain?"

Troy nodded and shrugged with that cocky grin running across his face.

Dietrich came to attention, and bowed stiffly, "Fraulein Captain. How may I be of assistance?" Then his voice turned plaintive, "And how did you get to this place?"

"Herr Hauptman Dietrich, that is a long story and I don't feel very comfortable standing here in the middle of an enemy camp, sixty five years into my past and shooting the breeze. Sergeant Troy says that you are a man of honor. That your word is gold, is he right?"

Dietrich took a deep breath, tried to control his confusion and looked around at Troy.

"Hey, don't look at me, you're the good guy." Troy grinned as Dietrich ground his teeth again.

He cleared his throat and nodded, "I would say that Sergeant Troy has a fine grasp of the situation. However, I give no word until I know what I am going to be trapped into." The whole time he talked, his eyes swept over the woman's uniform, spotting the obvious discrepancies and the strange weapon. He had indeed fallen through Alice's Looking Glass. It was beginning to look as though his young cousin Dieter was correct. He had seen this woman, half a world away from where they stood now. Then something tugged at his brain, "Sixty five years? Ah, in the past?"

She nodded sharply, "You got it, Herr Hauptman. And as much as I am sure that you are the most genial of hosts and spread a fine table, I and my people are running out of time. We fell through a rift or tear in time. We have to get back or risk fouling up your future, our past. Got a map?"

Dietrich stared at her and then at Troy for a long moment and then with hands held wide away from his body, walked to his field desk, started to open a drawer and stopped. "It is there, in the third drawer. There is no weapon there."

"Hey, you're learning, Hauptman." Troy grinned.

Dietrich rolled his eyes to heaven and prayed for patience. "I had an excellent teacher." That had been the final line of their previous scenario before Hitchcock had dashed into the tent. Almost reflexively, Hans glanced at the tent flap as if expecting to see the blond come pounding in. He and Troy exchanged shrugs and almost smiles at the memories.

The female Captain opened the drawer and removed the map, laying it flat on the table. She studied for a moment and then tapped a long finger on a location about ten miles out. "There. I need your word that you will come there, with your tank, B-34; it has to be that tank and no more than one other person. Someone you can trust, someone who will be able to keep his mouth shut. I know you can't handle those monsters alone, so I'm going to take your word that you will not attempt to ambush or attack us. Hauptman, my life and the lives of four of my people depend on your cooperation and I don't have time here and now to explain it all. There, at that wadi, we'll swap war stories and tell how we saw the elephant."

_Saw the elephant?_ Oh, yes, he had read that in a western shoot-them-up book once. He considered for a long moment, studied first her face, and then Troy's. He saw no deceit on either and a touch of desperation on hers. He finally nodded firmly. "You have my word as a German Officer and a gentleman that I will rendezvous with you at that location. I will be alone with the exception of…" He thought for a moment, "Corporal Heine, you remember him, Sergeant?"

Troy nodded and grinned remembering Hitchcock and the young German nattering away in two different languages and blowing big pink bubbles. Sometimes he wished he had a camera.

"When shall I be there?" Dietrich asked, looking at his watch.

"Will anyone panic if you are away overnight?" Troy asked.

Dietrich lifted an eyebrow and thought for a moment. "I think I can make an appropriate excuse that will allow me to disappear for an evening." He quirked a half smile and winked at Troy.

Troy smothered a laugh and Donovan just shook her head in mock sorrow.

Dietrich became serious in a split second. "Now, I require your word in return. This is not an attempt to assassinate me, or kidnap me or turn me over to your interrogators and no harm will come to my Corporal."

Donovan looked at Troy, he nodded and she turned back to the German Captain. "You have my word, Hauptman Dietrich. I can't swear as and officer and a _gentleman_, but you have my word as an officer of the United States Air Force that we will protect you and yours and do our level best to make sure no harm comes to you."

Dietrich slowly digested the words and played _United_ _States Air Force _through his mind a time or two to try and figure out what it was. He finally decided that he would find out what he needed to know at the wadi.

"Good enough. Two hours?"

Troy nodded, "Yeah, that's about right."

Donovan dropped to the floor, lifted the bottom of the tent just enough to see out and nodded. She eeled out and Troy started to follow when his arm was caught in Dietrich's hand, "You trust this woman?"

Troy nodded and followed her out of the tent.

Dietrich took a deep breath, stared at the remains of his cigarette, dropped it in the sand and ground it out. He found another, lit it and leaned against the table, deep in thought.

Donovan and Troy bellied out of the camp area and over the first line of dunes. Without a word, they both hit their feet and started to trot due east. Within minutes, two jeeps were in sight, they climbed aboard and headed for the preliminary meeting site.

(1) Yes, yes, stolen from _The B Negative Raid_. One of the better moments in the entire series.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 16**

**Somewhen**

_Not again…_

Plotting, planning, cussing, discussing and eating had gone on for a couple of hours before everyone was comfortable, or at least semi-comfortable with the plan.

Hitch with Williams riding shotgun and wearing Troy's hat would take one jeep. Tully and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) would take the other with Watters wearing Moffitt's beret. Their uniforms were traded for spares that were tucked away back in the "storage" area of the cavern.

Moffitt would take Iverson, Corny and the hummer to the prearranged rendezvous in the wadi where the Rat Patrol had first spotted the Situation Team. It was as close to the entry point as they could figure.

Troy and Donovan were tucked in the back of the jeeps and covered with canvas to keep the illusion of the Rat Patrol as real as possible. Tully and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) grinned at each other as they listened to steady litany of name calling and grousing about the overall lack of respect for the officers of the United States Air Force from the canvas covered lump behind them.

After shutting down the cave and clearing the back track, they all slowly headed for their own particular points of responsibility.

It took the "Rats" just over an hour to reach the wadi where Dietrich had his camp.

After making sure that Dietrich and his tanks were still in place, Donovan and Troy took to the sand and started working their way around to the back of the camp. Their objective was to slip into the Headquarters tent. When they were in position, hidden in some brush behind the tent, Donovan triggered her radio and told Williams, "Go."

Troy grinned as the two jeeps came flying down the wadi, tossed a couple of grenades into an ammo bunker and raced back out of range. Their objective was to confuse and harass, not to engage. They were to hit and run, causing as much confusion as possible. They did a good job of it. Troy heard running feet leave the tent and slid closer to take a look. Empty. He motioned to Donovan and she slid under the canvas like a snake.

Troy shook his head and grinned at the sense of déjà vu. The tent was set up exactly like it had been the last time. Good old German efficiency. He spotted a tall locker to the right of the entrance and motioned for Donovan to take up position in the shadowy corner. He slid back behind the makeshift partition that hid Dietrich's cot, and waited.

(1) Dietrich ground his teeth and strode back into his tent_. __Diese verfluchte Ratte-Patrouille._ He stopped, took a deep breath and pulled out a cigarette. Turning, he headed for his field desk to get his lighter when something jabbed him in the back, just hard enough to get his attention and let him know that the barrel of some weapon was centered on his spine. His first reaction was dumbfounded shock. It could not be, not again. He turned slowly to discover it was, again.

Troy extended his Zippo, flicked it and held it to the unlit cigarette. "Need a light, Captain?"

Dietrich inhaled reflexively and then just stood staring at his nemesis. This could not be happening, not again.

"I need your help." Stated Troy in that flat way he had that informed anyone listening that he intended to have that help.

Dietrich shook his head and wondered if he had wandered into Alice's Looking Glass.

"I need your help." Snapped Troy again.

_Very well, _Dietrich thought, _I will play the scene out. _"A rather unusual way of asking for it."

"I'm not asking." Responded Troy.

"I am."

Dietrich whirled to his left and watched the woman step out of the shadows behind the portable locker. He stared wide-eyed. "I know you! No, I do not know you, I have seen you. Two days ago. In a place that can not be." He narrowed his eyes and swept them over the tall woman and her bizarre uniform. His eyes were caught by the two bars on her collar points. He swung around to face Troy and mouthed, "Captain?"

Troy nodded and shrugged with that cocky grin running across his face.

Dietrich came to attention, and bowed stiffly, "Fraulein Captain. How may I be of assistance?" Then his voice turned plaintive, "And how did you get to this place?"

"Herr Hauptman Dietrich, that is a long story and I don't feel very comfortable standing here in the middle of an enemy camp, sixty five years into my past and shooting the breeze. Sergeant Troy says that you are a man of honor. That your word is gold, is he right?"

Dietrich took a deep breath, tried to control his confusion and looked around at Troy.

"Hey, don't look at me, you're the good guy." Troy grinned as Dietrich ground his teeth again.

He cleared his throat and nodded, "I would say that Sergeant Troy has a fine grasp of the situation. However, I give no word until I know what I am going to be trapped into." The whole time he talked, his eyes swept over the woman's uniform, spotting the obvious discrepancies and the strange weapon. He had indeed fallen through Alice's Looking Glass. It was beginning to look as though his young cousin Dieter was correct. He had seen this woman, half a world away from where they stood now. Then something tugged at his brain, "Sixty five years? Ah, in the past?"

She nodded sharply, "You got it, Herr Hauptman. And as much as I am sure that you are the most genial of hosts and spread a fine table, I and my people are running out of time. We fell through a rift or tear in time. We have to get back or risk fouling up your future, our past. Got a map?"

Dietrich stared at her and then at Troy for a long moment and then with hands held wide away from his body, walked to his field desk, started to open a drawer and stopped. "It is there, in the third drawer. There is no weapon there."

"Hey, you're learning, Hauptman." Troy grinned.

Dietrich rolled his eyes to heaven and prayed for patience. "I had an excellent teacher." That had been the final line of their previous scenario before Hitchcock had dashed into the tent. Almost reflexively, Hans glanced at the tent flap as if expecting to see the blond come pounding in. He and Troy exchanged shrugs and almost smiles at the memories.

The female Captain opened the drawer and removed the map, laying it flat on the table. She studied for a moment and then tapped a long finger on a location about ten miles out. "There. I need your word that you will come there, with your tank, B-34; it has to be that tank and no more than one other person. Someone you can trust, someone who will be able to keep his mouth shut. I know you can't handle those monsters alone, so I'm going to take your word that you will not attempt to ambush or attack us. Hauptman, my life and the lives of four of my people depend on your cooperation and I don't have time here and now to explain it all. There, at that wadi, we'll swap war stories and tell how we saw the elephant."

_Saw the elephant?_ Oh, yes, he had read that in a western shoot-them-up book once. He considered for a long moment, studied first her face, and then Troy's. He saw no deceit on either and a touch of desperation on hers. He finally nodded firmly. "You have my word as a German Officer and a gentleman that I will rendezvous with you at that location. I will be alone with the exception of…" He thought for a moment, "Corporal Heine, you remember him, Sergeant?"

Troy nodded and grinned remembering Hitchcock and the young German nattering away in two different languages and blowing big pink bubbles. Sometimes he wished he had a camera.

"When shall I be there?" Dietrich asked, looking at his watch.

"Will anyone panic if you are away overnight?" Troy asked.

Dietrich lifted an eyebrow and thought for a moment. "I think I can make an appropriate excuse that will allow me to disappear for an evening." He quirked a half smile and winked at Troy.

Troy smothered a laugh and Donovan just shook her head in mock sorrow.

Dietrich became serious in a split second. "Now, I require your word in return. This is not an attempt to assassinate me, or kidnap me or turn me over to your interrogators and no harm will come to my Corporal."

Donovan looked at Troy, he nodded and she turned back to the German Captain. "You have my word, Hauptman Dietrich. I can't swear as and officer and a _gentleman_, but you have my word as an officer of the United States Air Force that we will protect you and yours and do our level best to make sure no harm comes to you."

Dietrich slowly digested the words and played _United_ _States Air Force _through his mind a time or two to try and figure out what it was. He finally decided that he would find out what he needed to know at the wadi.

"Good enough. Two hours?"

Troy nodded, "Yeah, that's about right."

Donovan dropped to the floor, lifted the bottom of the tent just enough to see out and nodded. She eeled out and Troy started to follow when his arm was caught in Dietrich's hand, "You trust this woman?"

Troy nodded and followed her out of the tent.

Dietrich took a deep breath, stared at the remains of his cigarette, dropped it in the sand and ground it out. He found another, lit it and leaned against the table, deep in thought.

Donovan and Troy bellied out of the camp area and over the first line of dunes. Without a word, they both hit their feet and started to trot due east. Within minutes, two jeeps were in sight, they climbed aboard and headed for the preliminary meeting site.

(1) Yes, yes, stolen from _The B Negative Raid_. One of the better moments in the entire series.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 17**

**Somewhen**

_Say what…_

Hauptmann Hans Dietrich came quietly and on foot. He was alone. Troy looked him over and looked past him toward the horizon. He could just see a slight discoloration in the sand that was probably the tank with Heine at the turret gun.

"Don't trust us, Hauptmann?" Troy used that faint sneer that gave an edge to his smile.

"Should I? You appear in my camp, bring me a visitor that is an impossibility and ask that I trust you?" His sharp eyes covered the area, noting the two jeeps, the two privates, the strangers and Troy. "And Sergeant Moffitt? He is where?"

"About 30 miles from here in a wadi with two more of our visitors. We need to join up with them before dawn. Captain Donovan is not kidding, she needs your help. And it _is_ a matter of life and death."

Dietrich looked carefully at the woman in the strange uniform; he studied her eyes for a long moment and studied what he saw there. He nodded abruptly. His right hand went above his head and came down sharply. Within a minute, a faint plume of dust marked the erratic forward motion of the tank. Dietrich looked over his shoulder, sighed heavily and headed for the tank at a trot.

"It really does take two to handle those beasts." Donovan remarked quietly.

"Yeah, but I'm betting that if he had too, Dietrich could do it single-handed. The man is unique." Troy shook his head and grinned.

Tully shifted his match stick and grunted agreement. Hitch just nodded and kept fixing coffee. That gal that was supposed to be Tully's grand-kid had left them a couple of packs of the real stuff and they were not about to let it go to waste.

Donovan watched the Afrika Korps Captain catch a grip on the tank and hoist himself into the open turret. Within seconds, the tank had straightened its trajectory and was making a safe and slow approach to the temporary camp. They would go no further than this point until the Hauptmann had heard their story and decided to help or to turn around and head back to his camp. Either way, Rachel was not about to guide him to the rest of her team without reassurances.

The tank was shut down and all of the younger enlisted men helped with camouflage netting. Before too long, they were settled around the tiny fire, sipping coffee. Heine and Hitch had traded bubble gum and were happily chewing away all the while talking up a storm in two languages while Tully hunkered down on a high dune to keep watch.

"Does you man understand English?" Donovan asked the German Captain.

"Not a word, except perhaps beer and cigarette." Dietrich studied the two young men for a moment and shook his head in bewilderment.

"And I'm guessing that Hitch doesn't speak German?" This time her question was directed at Troy.

"Oh, perhaps _Bier, und Zigaretten_." Troy grinned cheekily.

"Then how the hell are they carrying on a conversation?"

Dietrich spoke up, "I asked that once and was informed that they both listen to the other very carefully and don't seem to have a problem."

Donovan shook her head and slowly smiled. "Maybe that is what the world needs to learn to do. Listen very carefully."

"I will listen very carefully, if you please explain how it is that I saw you in a place that I could not have been." Dietrich took a sip of the coffee and savored the taste as it slid down his throat; almost he could imagine he was home drinking coffee with his friends and family, before the madness had swept his homeland.

Donovan opened her mouth, closed it and looked at Troy. "Damn if I know where to begin!" She closed her eyes for a long moment and then took a deep breath. "Herr Hauptmann, I'm going to have to trust you. I don't have the mathematical knowledge or the engineering ability to even begin to try to explain what happened and what we are going to try to do, with your help. Sgt. Moffitt and my SSgt. Cornelius are at the primary site and they are the ones that figured it all out. We slid through a tear or a rip or rift in time and somehow, you were involved. We are from 65 years into your future. You were in Arizona, twice. Once my great uncle and his friend saw you."

"Two old men? Both grey headed, one with braids, one with his hair tied behind his head?"

Donovan nodded. "Old Man Logan has some Sioux in him and he favors braids. Uncle Old Tree wears the traditional bun. The other time was just a couple of days ago and we saw each other. Your tank sort of nudged our hummer and we wound up here."

Dietrich silently mouthed the word hummer and the perplexity was plain to see on his face.

"We, Moffitt and Corny, that is, think that if we can all be in about the same place at about the same time we might be able to return to our time."

Dietrich suddenly caught the fact that kept slipping out of his mind and hiding from his comprehension, and starred at her, the mental math shocking words out of him, "2007?! You are from the twenty first century?!"

"Hey, it isn't that far away. It's not like we are from Mars or Pluto, which isn't considered a planet anymore, by the way."

Dietrich looked at Troy and if Sam hadn't been so mired down in all the weirdness himself, he would have laughed at the expression on Dietrich's face, but he suspected his own face was equally perplexed and lost.

"I always made fun of my young cousin Dieter for his reading of Science Fiction stories. I shall have to apologize to him." He hunched in on himself, sipped his coffee and contemplated what he had been told. Finally, he straightened and nodded. "I will go with you to see if what you think might happen, happens. I will talk with Sgt. Moffitt and your mathematical SSgt. Cornelius. It can do no harm and perhaps one good thing can be done. You can go home to your world and I will have a wild story to tell my grandchildren."

Troy laughed and waved a hand at Tully. "Captain, that SSgt. Cornelius is about the prettiest little gal you will ever see, but keep your eyes in their sockets and your hands in your pockets or Tully will be honor bound to hurt you."

Dietrich looked askance at Troy and then at Tully who was trying to pretend that he was under one of the jeeps and buried in the sand.

"It turns out that SSgt. Caroline Sue Cornelius, commonly known as Corny, is the grand-daughter of our renowned moonshine running Tully Pettigrew."

Hauptmann Dietrich starred at Tully for a long moment and then started to laugh. "My grandmother once told me that daughters were God's punishment for being men. That as we grew older, we began to remember what we were like at that age and the idea of someone like us getting near one of our daughters was enough to cause ulcers. It must be even worse for a very young man to suddenly see a grown granddaughter and know that there is a world of young men like him."

Tully grunted and started readying the jeeps for travel. This was one conversation he refused to get involved in. But boy, was he gonna have a talk with Caroline Sue before she went back home. Even if she wasn't his grandkid, and he was beginning to think maybe she was, she was just too pretty and needed to be warned about guys like Hitch and, ah hell, himself. He thought for a moment and wondered if he had already given her that talk when she was turning into a teenager, far in the future. Damn, if he thought about that sort of thing too long, he got a headache. It didn't matter, she'd get the talk anyway.

Dietrich sat beside Troy and watched the Captain supervising the readying of the jeeps. She hadn't asked, just gone ahead and done the job that rightfully should have been Troy's.

"She considers herself under your command, Sergeant?"

Troy thought about that and half shrugged, "Sort of. I let my mouth overrule my brain right after we met and she informed me in no uncertain words that this was my desert and my war and for me to get the show on the road. I guess she figures her experience and knowledge is of a different time and place."

"Sound thinking." Hans studied her for a long moment and shook his head in puzzlement. "She is a striking woman, not precisely pretty, but beautiful in an odd way. I have the feeling that I have seen her face before."

Troy grinned, "Ever go to any western movies?"

Dietrich looked around with a surprised expression, "Yes. Why should that cause you to think I have seen her before?"

Troy chuckled, "There is always the noble chief and _the beautiful Indian Princess."_

Dietrich's eyes went wide as he studied her profile, "Yes, of course, the high cheek bones, the proud nose, the high forehead, the strange colored hair. She is Red Indian?"

"In her time, they say Native American, she tells us, but yeah, one quarter Navaho, and I think she got the best quarter. Not hard on the eyes, at all, is she? In fact, I think I could sit and look at her all day."

Dietrich nodded his head slowly in agreement and then his expression darkened, "If this experiment does not work, and she and her people cannot be returned to their time, you must not let her fall into German hands. Afrika Korps, they will respect her sex and her military rank, the others will not. And they will consider her to be a mongrel, less than human. There are disquieting rumors from the Homeland. She must be kept away from my people. You will promise me this?"

Troy wondered if he should inform Dietrich about the Negro NCO but decided that the Hauptmann had probably had all the shocks he could handle for a bit, "Yeah, I'd already thought of that. I figure we could find some way to smuggle them way south and then across to Mexico or South America, they could make it to the U.S. from there without too much trouble."

Dietrich nodded slowly, "I have some friends, here and there, that might be able to help with that."

"I'll take you up on that." He looked over to where the netting was being removed from the tank and drank down the last mouthful of coffee. "Well, as the good Captain says, time to get this show on the road, no, what she says is 'let's rock and roll'."

Dietrich looked at him in confusion.

Troy shrugged. "Hell, I don't know what it means either. She says a lot has changed in sixty five years."


	20. Chapter 20

**Hokay, for all you folks out there that have been waiting, sorry, sorry, but blame Ike. He slammed into Houston two weeks ago and today is the first day I have had power. Do you have any idea how long it took me to go through more than 1500 emails?! Never mind, you wouldn't believe me if I told you. Meanwhile back...somewhen.**

**Chapter 18**

**Somewhen**

_The truth will set you…_

The odd convoy, two American jeeps and a German tank, made good time across the desert. Luck was with them and they only had to hold up once to let a small truck convoy get out of sight.

The sun was just beginning to drop behind the distant hills as they pulled into the wadi where the Rats had first seen Donovan and her team. Moffitt came down from a dune perch, Thompson in hand but aimed to the sky. Troy took a fast look around and realized he didn't see Iverson and the itty bitty gal. Then he spotted a bit of very blonde hair behind a tire on that hummer thing. He figured that Iverson was probably dug in and both he and Corny had their weapons at the ready in case things had gone snafu.

The tank ground to a clanking, shuddering halt. Dietrich jumped down and turned to hold out a courteous hand to Donovan. She and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) had ridden in the tank to ease up the load on the jeeps and besides, as Donovan had said, she'd ridden in a modern German tank "but never in a genuine Afrika Korps Panzer."

She hesitated a moment, as though not used to the simple courtesy, and then took his hand as she jumped down followed by the two enlisted men who were giving each other curious looks. "Thanks for the lift, Hauptmann Dietrich, it was quite an experience." She extended the stock on her odd weapon and looked around the camp.

"It was very much my pleasure, Fraulein Captain."

Troy had always figured that Dietrich was a bit of a lady's man and judging by the performance he was watching, he was now convinced. He decided that Donovan was no one's fool and didn't need any warnings. Then he grinned and turned away to hide it. The Hauptmann might need to be warned about the Captain. Something told Troy that she probably could be hell on wheels.

Donovan looked around the camp and Troy watched her eyes home in on the bit of blonde hair and then dart to a dark shadow. She knew her people. Sam decided that having her for a commander would not be a hardship, she had her stuff together.

"Come on out, guys. Everything is cool."

The bit of blonde hair slithered out from behind the tire and turned into Corny, short, built, and adorable. A small part of Troy wished that he could get to know her better but he threw that thought out of his mind at once. Tully would probably beat him half to death and besides, she was just a baby. Donovan was more his speed, if she wasn't already taken and he didn't figure her for the type to cheat. Iverson came around the back of the hummer, weapon ready and stood like Nemesis with the final retribution at hand.

Oddly enough, Dietrich simply studied Iverson for a long moment, taking in the uniform, the stripes, the odd weapon, the unmistakable air of authority and nodded slowly. "This man, more than anything, convinces me that you tell the truth, Fraulein Captain. Only in the future could such as he live up to his potential and be recognized as an important part of a team."

Heine starred, mouth hanging open. At first, Troy thought he was starring at Corny, but then he realized that he was transfixed by the Negro NCO.

"Mein Hauptmann, ist er ein Afrikaner?" Heine whispered loudly to Dietrich.

"Nein, Heine, ist er ein amerikanischer Sergeant, ein sehr älterer Sergeant." _(No, Heine, he is an American Sergeant, a very senior Sergeant.)_

Iverson nodded and popped a crisp salute to both the German and the American Captains. "Alles Willkommen, ist gut hier."

"You speak German?" Dietrich's eyebrows tried to climb to meet his hat brim as he returned the salute.

"I do, Hauptmann."

Donovan spoke up at this point, "Actually, he speaks about a dozen different languages. Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) has three. Williams is working on learning Mandarin. I run to about six or seven and Corny, we won't even discuss her. Put her down in a strange country, go back in two weeks and she speaks the language like a native. Disgusting little git."

"Sorry, ma'am." There was no obvious remorse in the soft words.

"Oh, hush. There had better be coffee or I am going to get ugly like ape."

All of the "local timers" thought about that one for a minute and finally smiles started. Corny laid her weapon carefully aside and began filling an assortment of mugs and cups with hot brew and everyone settled in to do what the military always does in times of stress if beer is not available, drink coffee by the gallon.

Heine wound up sitting close to Iverson and the NCO held more fascination than a mug of real coffee. Finally, unable, to restrain himself, he slowly reached over and touched the back of Iverson's hand.

"Problem, sohn?" Iverson asked quietly.

"Ich bin traurig, wenn ich beleidigt habe. Ich habe nie eine Person mit solcher dunkler Haut vorher gesehen. Nur in nationalem geographischem." _(I am sorry if I have offended. I have never seen a person with such dark skin before. Only in National Geographic.")_ Heine ducked his head and flushed red with embarrassment.

Iverson chuckled, clearing the air of tension, and patted Heine on the shoulder. "Keine Handlung genommen."

Hitch drank his coffee down, motioned to Williams and Heine and the three men headed out to stand watch. Tully moved away from the others and built a fire. Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) joined him and the two of them started working on preparing a meal so they could put the fire out before full dark could turn it into a beacon.

Moffitt and Corny held forth on their theories concerning tears in time, maybe caused by bizarre sandstorms, sliding into those tears, trying to mend the tears and then showed Hauptmann Dietrich a rich assortment of items to convince him that he really was talking to "time travelers." The laptop held particular fascination for him.

Dietrich had listened, questioned, added thoughts and studied coins, paper money that had no equivalent in 1942, questioned the hummer, the odd weapons that the travelers carried, read one of the letters in the small bloodstained bundle and sighed sadly. "The poor woman. She will never know the truth of what happened to her husband, even if you do return to your time. Your organization will create some fiction to prevent panic, yes?"

Donovan nodded, "Probably, but rest assured, she will collect his pension and know that he died in the line of duty as a hero. That's what you're asking, isn't it?"

Troy rubbed a hand across his chin to disguise a grin. Dietrich really was a soft hearted sap where women and children were involved.

"Yes. Her child should have strong footsteps to follow. It will make the life of a widow with a child easier if the child knows the father did not leave because he wanted to but died doing a great duty. It is hard to explain but that is how I feel. A widow has a difficult life as it is."

Iverson nodded approval and Donovan smiled. "I think I know what you are trying to say. I agree and so will my superiors. That baby will have those strong footsteps."

Corny looked up from the laptop that she was typing on and her eyes widened. "SNIPER!" She launched herself at the German Captain and impacted him across the chest.

Dietrich had no time to react before a tiny female form had slammed herself into his chest. He felt a second impact through her body and then the "thwack" of a long range shot. His heart turned over as he reacted to the idea that this beautiful "child" had given her life for his. He heard her groan, "Oh shit, that is going to hurt," as he gathered her in his arms and threw himself against the far wall of the wadi. Around him everyone was going to ground. Tully had thrown sand over the fire and he and Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) took shelter behind the jeep.

The three guards came slithering down the sand, staying low and moving in jerky patterns to forestall giving the enemy (whoever he was) a chance to draw a bead.

Donovan and Iverson had yanked Corny out of Dietrich's arms and were busy pulling her shirt off. Dietrich saw a strange vest of overlapping discs. Donovan held Corny by the shoulders while Iverson ran his hands across the back of the vest and removed a mangled slug. Both Donovan and Iverson sighed in relief. "It didn't penetrate. Send a nice letter to the body armor people; you just joined the club, Corny."

The Rats and the two German soldiers stared at an alive, albeit, moaning Corny in amazement. "What is that she is wearing? I did mean to ask after we first met, but other things intruded." Moffitt's question had everyone looking at him.

Donovan blinked a couple of times and then realization dawned. Of course, they didn't have this type of equipment during this war. "It's Dragon Skin Body Armor. It's still in the field testing stage but we get to play with that kind of gear a lot. It's designed to stop just about anything. It leaves a hell of a bruise and it isn't painless, but, as Iverson said, Corny gets to join the club."

"Club?" Troy was looking at the tiny gal taking short pants of breath through her mouth and trying to blink back tears of pain.

Iverson responded, "The Survivors Club. Your body armor saves your life, you join the club and you write a nice letter to the manufacturers. This type is good for multiple hits. Most are a one hit wonder. One hit, get new armor."

Another slug slammed into the far side of the wadi and everyone ducked slightly.

Dietrich took the young SSgt. by the hand and lifted her fingers to his lips. "I thank you for my life. You had no call to do what you did, I am technically your enemy, but I do thank you. How did you know? I saw and heard nothing."

Corny blushed bright red, causing several coughs around the group and whispered to herself, "Oh wow." She took a deep breath and let it out with a faint groan. "Laser spot on your shirt." She panted hard as if the words had increased the pain.

Dietrich looked over at Donovan, the question obvious.

"A small red dot from a laser scope shows where the bullet will hit, but it does warn a person if someone spots it. And no, I am not going to spend the next couple of hours trying to explain a laser scope when we have someone or several someone's out there trying to put paid to us."

She looked at the sun falling below the hills and turned to Troy. "How long before full dark?"

Troy looked at Moffitt and he in turn looked at the sun, and then at his watch. "I'd say an hour, slightly less, perhaps. There is no moon tonight, so it will get darker much faster."

Dietrich glanced at the setting sun and nodded. "We will need to flank them. We cannot simply sit here and trade shots with someone we cannot see."

Iverson looked at Donovan and then at the hummer. "NVG and portable spot?"

Donovan nodded and then turned to Troy. "That bazooka that is in the back of one of the jeeps, which one is it?"

Troy looked around and smiled. "The one that Tully is hiding behind. That is his baby, give him a target he can see and he can blow it to kingdom come."

Donovan nodded, grinned, laid her baby carbine aside and started rooting through her pockets. Hitch grabbed a loose piece of paper before it blew away. He was about to hand it to the Captain when a fusillade slammed into the far side of the wadi. He ducked, shoved it into his pocket and gripped his rifle tight.

Apparently, the Captain found what she wanted because she pulled out a small black case, not much longer than a fountain pen, but about an inch square. She opened it and removed what looked like a miniature rifle scope with a long wire dangling from it and a tiny lens at the front of it. She fixed the tiny tube to the top of her carbine and ran the dangling wire back to a socket on the underside of the stock. She flicked a switch and Hitch heard a faint hum and then a small green light lit up the other side of the wadi. She nodded and turned it off. "We have to wait for full dark, but then the fun starts. We need to keep our friends out there, whoever they are, focused on us and not let them think about flanking us."

Troy nodded, looked at Moffitt who grinned and then the two of them popped up to the edge of the wadi and let their Thompsons go to town. They dropped back down and then Troy looked at Hitch and Heine. "Count 20 and then it is your turn."

Hitch nodded and flashed 20 fingers at Heine and then started counting them down. Heine understood immediately and was poised to fire.

As the second volley crashed toward the unknown enemy, Iverson began worming his way to the hummer. He stopped and thought for a second when he got to it, trying to mental map the location of everything they needed and then slid inside. A couple of sharp words could be heard, some scrambling, a couple of what sounded like lids being slammed down and then a duffle hit the sand and the NCO slid out, grabbed it by the strap and started back to the team.

Troy, Moffitt and Donovan held a fast conference and then Troy, keeping tight against the near wall of the wadi, duck walked toward the jeep. He got close enough to be able to talk to Tully without raising his voice and when he finished, Tully was grinning from ear to ear. Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) slowly started to smile and the two of them settled down behind the jeep to stay out of the line of fire and to wait for dark.

Dietrich lent his weapon's fire to Donovan's and between the lot of them, they spent the next hour, firing blind, only a few shots at a time, but just enough to keep the enemy from advancing or attempting flanking maneuvers.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 19**

**Somewhen**

_La via esta duro, amigo…_

_(The way is hard, friend…)_

_Since we had determined that neither side of this insane war had anything resembling a laser spotter, it sort of followed that whoever we were facing was most likely the drug smugglers and murderers that the Feebs had been trying to catch on the reservation. I'm guessing that they got caught in a sandstorm and didn't have the brains to pull up and wait it out. Ergo, they landed in our back yard. Well, I hate doing Thomas's job for him, but I don't think he would mind this time._

The enemy on the other side of the dunes kept their heads down and only popped up occasionally to "test the waters."

Donovan looked at the darkening sky and grinned, "Think it is time to stir the pot?"

Iverson grunted and the "locals" exchanged quizzical looks.

**"Hey, Chico, usted está lejos de hogar. ****¿Sienta un pedacito solo?****"** Donovan yelled while sitting calmly against the side of the wadi, clearing her weapon and inspecting it for sand. (_Hey, kid, you're a long way from home. Feeling a bit lonely?"_

"**¿Qué importa a usted, puta?" ** (_What does it matter to you, whore?)_

Iverson snorted and shook his head, "Real short on comebacks, ain't he?'

"You know, if I was a lesser person, I could really feel insulted over that." Donovan grinned. "Let's see, what should I say next? Oh, yes. ¿**Usted besa a su madre con esa boca?**" (_Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?)_

Iverson whispered a quick translation to Moffitt who grinned and passed it along to the others.

**"****¡Usted no habla de mi madre, perra!" **A sudden volley threw dirt and sand over the people in the wadi, but the enemy was too low to get a shot at any point but the opposite side, which had been vacated immediately. _(You don't talk about my mother, bitch!")_

Cory held her ribs and grimaced. "Él es un hombre joven muy grosero, mi capitán." (_He is a very rude young man, my Captain."_

"Si, Senorita Caroline, si." Donovan leaned back and closed her eyes. Again Troy saw her eyes flicking back and forth under the eyelids. Faster and faster and then she suddenly opened them with a grin and glanced at her watch. "Nearly full dark."

Moffitt reached over Iverson and tapped her arm, "You're a whole brain thinker, aren't you?"

"Huh?" Donovan looked totally blank.

"Most people depend mostly on one side of the brain or the other, logic or creativity. Not many are whole brain thinkers, but I've seen that eye flicker before."

Donovan thought for a long moment and then shrugged. "I've never heard it called whole brain thinker. When I was in college I participated in a study and "they" called me a shuttle thinker. Seems I bounce back and forth between the two halves of the brain, put together bunches of plans and grab the best from all of them and use that one. I don't even realize I am doing it. It makes it kind of fun when plotting strategic moves, or playing chess."

"Sounds real handy." Troy contributed.

"Well…my plans do tend to work, most of the time. Any plan is perfect until the first time it engages the enemy."

"Sun Tzu." Dietrich looked across at her. "You have read Sun Tzu?"

"Uh yeah, kind of interesting in my mind. I also enjoyed von Clausewitz." She grinned, "I have strange reading tastes."

Troy laughed, "Actually, considering the business you are in, they sound like pretty good reading tastes. Read any of Rommel's stuff?" He grinned sideways at Dietrich.

"Hello? Can anyone get a degree in Military History and not be very well versed in the Desert Fox?"

Dietrich swallowed his pride and asked, "Does Herr Field Marshall survive the war?"

"I'm not going to go there. If I say yes, and you pass it along, then maybe he gets sloppy and steps in front of a truck that he would have otherwise watched for. If I say no, then maybe he becomes so paranoid that he winds up getting himself killed before it is the proper time. No, what I know stays right here in my mind."

Dietrich nodded and looked away to digest that information.

"Knowing the future is not necessarily a good thing, Hauptmann Dietrich." Moffitt added.

Iverson cleared his throat. "Full dark, Cap."

Donovan looked around the sky. "So it is. Okay, Troy, do exactly what I showed you. Slow look up, duck you head down if you see any bright lights, a direct light can blind you for a long time. Pan from right to left. I'll go from left to right. You are looking for anything that looks like these monstrosities." She hefted the NVG and handed one across to Troy. "If you see a weapon pointed in your direction, hit the dirt, fast. This is just a "look see." Not an attack."

"Got ya." Troy grimaced as he put on and adjusted the heavy headset and settled it over his eyes. "Damn! Everything is green!" He looked around at the members of their little group and grinned as he saw Tully giving him a very vulgar signal. "Nice, Tully. I'll remember that."

A low laugh came across the cooling sand, "You do that, Sarge."

Iverson snorted and made a few adjustments on the straps and then turned to check Donovan. "Looks like you two are good to go."

Looking like some kind of alien insects, the two warriors from radically different "worlds" slowly inched their way up the side of the wadi until their heads, from nose up, were above the wall. It took only a couple of seconds to find their goal and another few seconds to survey it and then Donovan yanked on Troy's shirt and they slid down the wall to the base of the wadi.

Donovan pulled the goggles off and rubbed her eyes. "I hate those things, and I love those things. I love what they can tell me, but I hate the weight and the eye distortion. I always get a headache."

Troy looked at the device in his hand and nodded very slowly. "Yeah, I can get behind that. Makes your eyes feel like they are dancing around."

Iverson and Dietrich looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "So? And just what did you see, Cap?" Iverson asked briskly.

"Looked like four of them." She looked over at Troy and he nodded his confirmation. "They've got NVG, but their discipline sucks. They have a small, barely visible fire which is hampering their night vision and they are clustered in one small area instead of being spread out."

"Sounds like shooting fish in a barrel."

"I'd say so," said Troy. He tapped a three beat with his nail on the barrel of the Thompson, a pause and then a two beat.

Tully went face down in the sand and started slithering toward them. He slid down into the wadi and then duck walked to Troy. "Yeah, Sarge?"

"Listen careful. Keep your head down, and behind the jeep. In fact, pull your helmet over your eyes. Get Watters (two t's, please, ma'am) to hold it there and be ready to yank it away on signal. As soon as the signal is given, you are up, look for the green light and drop that bazooka in their front door. Got it?"

Tully switched the matchstick to the other side of his mouth and grunted. "Got it, Sarge. Oh, hey, gimme a couple of minutes to get back, brief Jasper and get the baby ready." He turned away and began his return to the jeep.

Troy looked at Donovan, "Jasper?"

She grinned, "Airman Watters' (two t's, please, ma'am) first name. I'd say they swapped a lot of war stories over there."

Troy snickered, "Hope your man doesn't start chewing on match sticks."

Donovan rolled her eyes and then put the NVG back on. She did a test to ensure the odd green light was working, and then carefully turned it off. She turned so that she was facing the wall of the wadi, crouched, and then nodded at Iverson.

He dropped what looked like a black cloth bag over her head and placed one hand on her shoulder. "Wait for it."

Dietrich and Troy popped up and slammed several rounds at their opponents. The return firing was ragged and bunched up.

Moffitt flexed his hand around the portable spot and waited for Iverson's signal.

"Eyes closed. Heads down. Moffitt!"

Sergeant Moffitt bounced up like a Jack-in-the-box and pressed the switch on the portable spot. And incredible blue-white light filled the desert night and cries of pain could be heard from across the sand. Moffitt killed the light and dropped back onto the bottom of the wadi to run a sleeve over violently watering eyes.

"Ready, ready, now!" Iverson pulled the bag from Donovan's head at the same instant she hit the switch on the T2000 green laser spotter. She was erect and aiming through her scope. The green light played over what appeared to be a battered van and several moaning men.

"**KAWOMPH**." The bazooka left the tube and slammed onto the green dot with fatal accuracy. There was silence across the sands, not even a moan could be heard.

Troy pulled on the NVGs and looked over the edge of the wadi and waited several long minutes before removing them and grinning. "I think all those fish are dead. But, we need to make sure. By twos, spread out, stay low, and converge on the camp over there. Shake it."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 20**

**Somewhen**

_Time waits for…_

The men and women ghosted silently across the rapidly cooling sand and slowly converged on the site of the explosion. Iverson and Dietrich were the first ones into the depression and were busy checking bodies as the others joined them.

"All dead." Iverson reported to Donovan standing on the edge of the crater and looking down at the mess.

"Sheesh, Tully, couldn't you be a bit neater?" Hitch fussed as he looked at the distorted and torn bodies.

Tully switched the match stick from one side of his mouth to the other and just grinned.

Donovan jumped down and made her way to the badly damaged van. She slung her weapon by the strap and fought the rear doors open. She jumped back out of the way as boxes and plastic wrapped bales slid out and formed a jumbled mass on the sand. Troy watched her pull a knife and slit open one of the plastic bales. "Grass," was her only comment. She then turned her attention to one of the cardboard boxes. She sliced it open and dumped what seems like thousands of tiny bags out. "Crack."

Iverson spat to the side in disgust.

The Captain studied the interior of the van for a long moment, then climbed out of the depression, looked around very carefully and counted bodies. "Troy, how many bodies do you see?"

Troy slung his weapon and began the distasteful job of trying to determine the number of dead from a scattering of torsos and limbs. After a few minutes, he spat to clear his mouth of the heavy saliva pooling in it, cleared his throat and answered, "As near as I can tell…four."

"Someone is missing. There were five sleeping bags in the van and there are only four bodies here."

Everyone immediately began to fan out to search for the missing man.

Like silent shades, the group began to quarter the desert around the wadi.

Troy was following several feet behind Donovan, looking to the sides for scuff marks that would show someone's progress over the sand when the age old intuition of the warrior brought his head up. He didn't think, he didn't call out. When he saw that red dot wavering on the back of Donovan's helmet, he dove forward and took her down by the waist. He felt the air go out of her lungs in a whoosh just as the sound of an angry bee passed well above them followed by the crack of the rifle.

Almost instantly the night was alive with bullets. There was a long silence and then a single shot cracked out. Troy would bet his bottom dollar that was Dietrich making sure. He was that way and he didn't like back shooters.

Donovan managed to get a deep breath back into her lungs and coughed. "Hey, Shorty?"

"Yeah, what do you want, Stretch?"

"Two questions. Is your first name Sam or Samuel?"

Troy blinked in confusion. "Samuel, why?"

"Oh, just so I know what to name my first kid."

Troy laughed, "Hey, what if the first one is a girl?"

"It'll give her an advantage. When some brat twits her about her first name, she can tell them that she was named after the Sergeant that saved her mom's life in 1942. That should cause enough confusion for her to get in the first smack, or run like hell."

Troy thought that one over for a minute and grinned, "Good point. What's the second question?"

Donovan spat sand out of her mouth, "Are you going to take a nap up there or are you just trying to decide if you want to kiss me?"

Troy suddenly realized that he was lying on top of Donovan, still, and his laughter started somewhere near his toes and boiled up into a roar as he rolled off her back. "Captain, dear, the thought of kissing you is tempting beyond belief, but I truly believe that if you didn't kill me first, your fiancé would figure out some way to come back here, rip my arms off and beat me to death with them."

Donovan and Troy heard Iverson's cough, the one that did a poor job of disguising his laugh. All around them came the sounds of humor.

Troy shook his head, "Sound travels in the desert."

"Yeah, it does." Donovan sat up; spat another mouthful of sand out and immediately starting clearing her carbine.

Hitch gathered up the "juniors" and began a funeral detail. Troy held out a hand, Donovan pulled herself up and limped to where Moffitt, Iverson, and Dietrich stood in consultation.

Iverson looked her over carefully and nodded his thanks to Troy. "I was just telling Sergeant Moffitt and Hauptmann Dietrich that tomorrow after we have tried our experiment, that they need to pour as much gas as they can spare into this camp area and blow it to hell. I'd say we can spare some plastic to make a really big boom?"

"Do it. We don't want that crap loose in this time."

Dietrich ran his own eyes over the tall Captain to make sure for himself that there were no wounds and then asked, "I am aware that "grass" is another name for Marijuana, and it is not a good thing. But what is this "crack" that you mentioned?"

Donovan shook her head, "Just think a thousand times worse and more addictive than heroin."

Dietrich looked at the hollow that had once been a camp and shuddered. "If it were not that the fire ball would bring everyone within miles, I would blow it up now. But we will wait until morning."

A couple of hours later, they finally had their belated meal and with sentries out, settled in to attempt some rest. Tully had Corny off to the side and Donovan would bet her promotion to Major that he was giving her the "don't trust guys" speech.

Moffitt and Dietrich were quietly trading University stories. Iverson had knocked off and was snoring softly.

Troy looked across at Donovan, "Have you thought about what is going to happen if this doesn't work?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah, and I don't like any of the alternatives. Iverson and I wouldn't last long as guests of the Third Reich. There's the idea of getting back to the U.S., tramp ships, I suppose, with all the wolf packs cruising the Atlantic. Not fun. Trying to stay hid out here in Africa, another not so good idea. Ever see an Arab woman my height? I have to just figure that it is going to work and I'll worry about it not working if it doesn't." She stopped and thought for a minute, "Boy, that was convoluted."

"Yeah, but I think I know what you are saying. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I heard that in a sermon once when I was a kid and finally figured out that it meant worry about today, today. Let tomorrow take its own sweet time getting here and then you can worry about it when it is today."

Donovan nodded and slid down the side of the wadi to try to get a little more comfortable. "Today, I'm going to worry about getting some sleep."

Troy watched her face relax into sleep and sat looking at her for a long time. He was going to miss her when she went "home." He looked around at sleeping bodies and those still talking softly. Hell, he'd miss them all, even Dietrich.

As the sun came up the next morning, they could all feel the oddness in the air, the strange electricity that had presaged the earlier storms. Goodbyes and good lucks were said, hand shakes exchanged and when he least expected it, Donovan grabbed Troy's ears, pulled him forward and planted a very thorough kiss on him.

"My way of saying thanks." Donovan grinned at him and Troy coughed and tried his best to stop the flood of red that was working it's way from his hairline to his ankles.

Everyone looked at the scenery while Corny hugged Tully. It had been decided between Dietrich and Moffitt that they would handle the tank. Heine didn't have the experience for precision driving.

The Situation Team loaded into the hummer and Iverson drove it to as close to the original spot as they could figure. They lined it up to face the East as it had been when they had slid through time. The Panzer pulled into position and everyone waited. Troy, Hitch, Tully and Heine stood on the ridge of the wadi and watched with worried eyes.

Suddenly the sand began to whip around like a dervish and the strange whine began to rise. Donovan stood up in the hatch and watched the tank. Finally, when Dietrich determined the sand was as thick as it was that fateful day, he gave the orders to Moffitt who moved the tank slowly straight for the hummer. At the last minute, Dietrich called down a course correction and the side of the tank glanced off the hummer making it slide sideways a few feet. Things grew hazy, there was a suddenly lurch and Donovan saw those wonderful buttes of the Navaho Reservation. She could still see Dietrich in the open turret of his tank and she snapped a rigid salute to him. He popped to attention and returned her salute and then for no particular reason that she could name, her fingers went to her lips and she blew him a kiss.

His teeth flashed whitely as he grabbed at the empty air and made a show of tucking the kiss safely in his pocket and then the sand came up, gathered the tank to itself and was gone.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Last**

**Now**

_Home is the hunter…_

Agnes Billy's eyes popped open and she grinned at the rising sun. "Thomas, man who will marry my Rachel, she is home."

Thomas jerked out of the blanket he had wrapped himself in and tried to blink himself awake. He heard the words, but they didn't seem to register and then his sat phone rang, "Rachel?"

"Well, hello, there you handsome fellow? Doing anything this evening?"

He could hear the ragged edge of something in her voice. It wasn't hysteria, Rachel was way too calm for that, but there was something that told him things were going to take a lot of explaining. About that moment, he heard yelling from the camp site and knew that someone had picked up on either the GPS chip in the hummer, or another sat phone was in use, either way, she was back and she didn't sound hurt.

"Um, Rachel, your Grammy Agnes says that we will name our first child, Samuel."

"Oh, she is so right. He's an Army Sergeant, but I won't hold that against him, from another time and war. He saved my life and I told him our first kid was Samuel."

"Hon, what if the first one is a girl?" Thomas knew he was just making conversation to hear her voice, but somehow that little fact seemed very important.

Her laughter rolled out of the phone, "Asked and answered, handsome, asked and answered and when we have some privacy, I'll tell you what I told Sam Troy."

**Then**

_What next…_

Hans Dietrich leaned back in his chair and swirled the brandy slowly in the glass, watching the ebb and flow of the liquid, and thought about the mutability of time. He had sent Heine to his blankets with a glass of brandy under his belt and warned him that no one would believe him if he told what had happened.

"Herr Hauptmann, I was there and I do not believe me." Hans had smiled as he watched the young man trudge across the sand to the tent he shared with three others. He knew the Heine was not a drinker, or a braggart, nor a Nazi. He was a steady young soldier and he had a fine sense of honor. Hans hoped he would be able to get him back home alive and in one piece.

He smiled gently and patted the buttoned pocket of his shirt. A kiss from a woman not yet born. It made for an interesting paradox and one that was worthy of serious study. The little doll-like blonde had talked about a thing called the internet, which was also not thought of yet, but would come to pass. From a few things she had said, he gathered that it was possible to find people, their history, their family, and their locations. That might also be worthy of study. Captain Rachel Y. Donovan, Air Force. He would need to write that down so that he did not forget and when the internet came into being, he would see if he could find her…and four others.

_A long way aways…_

Sam looked across the fire at Hitch and Tully and then sideways at Jack. "Seems kind of lonesome now, doesn't it?"

Jack nodded, "I had always considered the four of us quite a crowd, but somehow we seem, well, like less now."

Tully clenched his jaw and then relaxed it. "Think they made it back alright? I mean, it's sort of confusing, all of that, _it hasn't happened yet and that's why you don't remember it, but now it has and we don't know if you'll remember this or if things'll go back to the way they was._"

They all thought about it for a few minutes and then Hitch pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Well, there's one way to find out what happens. The Captain dropped this out of a pocket when she was looking for that spooky green light thing of hers. I meant to give it back but we got a bit busy right then and I forgot till just now." He grinned and passed the paper over to Troy.

Troy read and started to grin, "Hey, our Captain is getting promoted to Major. Good for her. This is a set of promotion orders for December 1st."

Moffitt grinned, "That's only two weeks away. I wonder if we can figure out some way to be there."

Troy laughed, "Doc, its two weeks and sixty five years away."

Moffitt gave him an innocent stare. "Do you have any objections to a spot of long range planning?"

Male laughter rang out across the dark sands.

**Now**

_Epilogue_

As they say in Hollywood, picture this, and then they do that weird frame thing with their hands…anyway, picture this. I'm walking through the door into my Queendom, those gorgeous gold leaves gleaming on my dress blues (which I wear about once a year and then it takes a direct order), Dan right behind me, both of us grinning foolishly from the promotion ceremony. Now, here is where it happens. I keep forgetting about that new 702, you remember, the Administrative Specialist? Anyway, the General, damn his eyes, sent me a MARINE! Not _just_ a Marine, but a female Marine with lungs like leather and one of those, "Ma'am, yes, ma'am," every other sentence out of her mouth types. Oh sheesh.

Ready for it? No, I didn't think so. I wasn't either.

"ATTENTION ON DECK!" The bellow rolled over me, lifted me about three feet in the air, turned me 180º and had me trying to climb over Dan to escape the building. And Dan, damn HIS eyes, was laughing and preventing my escape. I will get even with him…and her.

"Ma'am, you have visitors in your office, ma'am."

I lifted one corner of my mouth and snarled at her, she grinned back. No respect, I get no respect. "You know, Silent Insolence is still an active crime in the UCMJ?"

She just smiled at me, no teeth, and lots of twinkly eyes and continued, "Ma'am, yes, ma'am."

"Oh I give up!" I slammed my garrison cap (Thank God, they don't make us wear those stupid hard shell berets anymore) onto the hat rack and stalked into my office where my jaw hit the floor, bounced a couple of times and then I staggered like a drunk until I could grab the back of a chair.

They were old. Hell, sixty five years had passed for them, but they were still tall, mostly straight and, by God, still handsome. Grammy Agnes wouldn't kick any of them out of her blankets. Come to think of it…no, no, think Thomas, think Thomas. He is not the kind to share. Think Thomas. Anyway, back to the lovely subject, Moffitt had gone stone white, very distinguished. He was dressed in the best Savile Row could offer. His suit was obviously bespoke. Hitch, being blonde to begin with, didn't look as old as the others with that baby face of his. He was leaning on a silver headed mahogany cane and looking very dapper. Tully still had that matchstick and his one sided grin. The rugged lines of his face were just a bit deeper, his face a bit more weathered. Dietrich was standing slightly to the side and he grinned at me, reached into his suit pocket, pulled out nothing and blew it at me. Without even thinking, I caught it and tucked it away. He'd saved the kiss I had blown him. His hair had darkened over the years and was mostly pepper with a dash of salt, and he'd put on a few needed pounds, and there was a mustache but those eyes still had the look of an eagle.

I looked around and my heart hit the floor, "Where's Troy!?"

Moffitt laughed, "He decided that he needed to check your facilities."

"Well, hell, the first time I met her, she caught me with my zipper down, why should this time be any different?" Arms that trembled a bit and weren't quite so strong anymore went around me from the rear and hugged. "Looking good, _Major_."

I turned to look at him, standing there with that cocky grin of his, "Hiya, Shorty," and just for an instant, we were all back in 1942.

**The End?**

**Now, before anyone starts telling me that the Rats could not still be alive, and that Dietrich was dust, please, take into consideration the average ages of the fighting men of WWII, on both sides of the war. **

**We are not speaking of the "regular" Army, of which there were actually very few at the beginning of the war. We are speaking of the volunteers and conscripts.**

**The average Private was 17.5 years old.**

**The average Sergeant was 22.**

**The average Lt was 22. **

**The average Lt-pilot was 21. In fact, it was not unusual to follow the career of a fighter pilot and watch him go from Lt to LtCol in the course of one year, or less. Attrition was deadly.**

**The average Capt was 26.**


End file.
